Rose of Gondor
by legallyinsane93
Summary: AU We know of the sons of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, but what of his daughter? This is the story of Adamira, the youngest of the Steward's children, after she is sent to request aid from Rohan for her war-weary country. Eventual Eomer/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: ONE AND ONLY! I do not own LotR. I'm only writing this for entertainment, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

**Title:** Rose of Gondor

**Summary:** We know of the sons of Denethor II, Steward of Gondor, and his wife, Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth. We know of Boromir, the eldest, brave and honorable until his death. We know of Faramir, the second, noble and intelligent leader of the Rangers of Ithilien. But what of Denethor's daughter? This is the story of Adamira, the youngest of the Steward's children, as she is sent to Rohan by her brother to seek aid and reinforcements for her war-weakened country. There, she finds more than she expected...in the form of Eomer, Third Marshal of the Mark.

**Note: **This is an AU story, but events will primarily be based off of movie canon, with a few influences from the books.

* * *

**Chap. 1**

Day. The harsh light of the glaring afternoon sun was dimmed as it filtered through the waterfalls of Henneth Annun, for which Faramir was grateful, as the bright light would have done nothing helpful for his growing headache. Faramir sat at a small table, the waterfall of Henneth Annun visible out of the corner of his eye. His lieutenant Madril and some of his other men sat across from him, rolling out a map of the realm.

"What news?" Faramir asked, squinting at the map in the dim light.

"Our scouts report Saruman has attacked Rohan," Madril began. "Théoden's people have fled to Helm's Deep." He pointed at the realm of Gondor on the map as Faramir groaned in frustration. "But we must look to our own borders. Faramir, Orcs are on the move. Sauron is marshalling an army. Easterlings and Southrons are passing through the Black Gate."

"How many?" Faramir inquired, perplexed.

"Some thousands," Madril replied gravely. "More come every day."

"Who's covering the river to the north?"

"We pulled 500 men at Osgiliath, but if the city is attacked, we won't hold it."

Faramir ran his finger over the map, tracing the routes of the enemy. "Saruman attacks from Isengard. Sauron from Mordor. The fight will come to men on both fronts." He sighed. "Gondor is weak. Sauron will strike us soon. And he will strike hard. He knows now we do not have the strength to repel him." He looked up from the map as a new thought struck him. "What of Adamira? What has she reported?" Madril seemed hesitant to answer, refusing to look his captain in the eye. "What is it, Madril?"

"Your sister and her team have yet to report in, Faramir," Madril answered slowly, choosing his words carefully.

A stricken look crossed Faramir's face, but he quickly hid it. "Have her report directly to me as soon as she arrives." Faramir lifted a silent prayer to the Valar to keep his sister safe. Many men had disappeared in the forests of Ithilien as of late, never to be seen again, most likely slain by the orcs that plagued the lands.

"No need, Brother," a voice called from the entrance to Henneth Annun. The men's heads turned and a relieved look was plain on Faramir's face as a fairly young woman came in, dressed in the same green and brown as Faramir, the White Tree of Gondor on her vest slightly faded with dirt and grime, flanked by three men in the same hues of brown and green. "Forgive our delay, we were…sidetracked."

"What news can you tell us?" Faramir requested, trying to seem undisturbed as he ran a scrutinizing gaze over Adamira and her team, a frown deepening the corners of his mouth as his gaze lingered on bandages around one of the men's thighs and Adamira's upper arm.

"Orcs are beginning to leave Mordor. They marched past our camp at Emyn Arnen, hence our lateness." Adamira reported, causing Faramir's eyes to snap back to hers. "What news here?" she continued. "I have heard rumors of captives."

* * *

Frodo looked around desperately as his blindfold and bonds were removed, seeking out the familiar face of Sam to find that he was being released as well. They seemed to be in a cave behind a waterfall of some sort, as the sound of rushing water resounded in Frodo's ears. Rangers were striding past them, their shadows bouncing off the walls, set on some errand of their captain. One ranger sat on a rock near them, constantly watching, making Frodo apprehensive.

Frodo watched suspiciously as the leader and another figure walked over to them and sat. It took a moment for Frodo to register that the other figure was a woman, as she was dressed the same as the men. A bow and quiver hung on her back and a sword and dagger hung from her belt. Deep, red-brown hair hung in a braid over her shoulder, and wide-set grey eyes in a lightly-tanned face not yet marked by years of worry watched them, an interested look gracing the face that was softer than the solid face of the man beside her, though there was a certain similarity in the set determination carved into both of their expressions. She walked with the graceful gait of a mountain cat—relaxed, but ready to attack should the need arise.

"My men tell me that you are Orc spies," the man said as the duo drew closer.

"Spies? Now wait just a minute!" Sam cried indignantly.

"Well if you're not spies, then who are you?" he inquired, cutting off Sam's protests. Frodo chose to remain silent, and Sam did the same. "Speak."

"We are hobbits of the Shire," Frodo began. "Frodo Baggins is my name and this is Samwise Gamgee."

"Your bodyguard?" The man asked, amused.

"His gardener," Sam corrected. The woman suppressed a grin at the scene playing out before her. The man looked at her sharply and her serious manner returned.

"And where is your skulking friend?" the captain continued. "That gangrel creature. He had an ill-favored look."

Frodo hesitated a moment before replying. "There was no other. We set out from Rivendell with seven companions. One we lost in Mória. Two were my kin. A Dwarf there was also, and an Elf. And two men, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Boromir of Gondor." At this, both rangers donned an intense look of interest, their matching grey eyes boring into Frodo's.

"You're a friend of Boromir?" the man asked.

"Yes... for my part," Frodo answered.

"It will grieve you then to learn that he is dead."

Frodo was shocked. "Dead? How? When?" The woman's gaze fixed steadily on Frodo.

"As one of his companions, I'd hoped you would tell me."

"If something has happened to Boromir we would have you tell us!" Frodo begged.

"His horn washed upon the riverbank about six days past," the man finally answered. "It was cloven in two. But more than this, I know it in my heart." He paused before continuing. "He was our brother."

Frodo now understood the similarity of the pair: they were related, and both reminded him of Boromir, the man in physical features, the woman in the grace and fluidity of her bearing. He found that he could not look the siblings in the face, now knowing the ill fate that had befallen their brother, his comrade.

* * *

Faramir and Adamira reclined at a table, small plates of food before them. Faramir's sat untouched, while Adamira was eating quickly, almost as though it was her last meal on earth. When every last morsel of food on her plate had disappeared, she sat back, a moment of uneasy silence hovering over the pair.

"How long do you plan to keep them here, Faramir?" Adamira finally asked, shattering the precarious quiet.

"Who?" Faramir returned, picking at the food growing cold before him.

"Don't play dumb, Faramir. You're far too intelligent for it," Adamira admonished. "The Hobbits."

"How is your arm?" Faramir inquired, gesturing to the bandage tightly encasing part of Adamira's upper arm in effort to skirt answering her question.

"It is fine," Adamira returned plainly.

"What happened?"

"Brother, you are avoiding my question!" A wrinkle appeared between Adamira's eyes as a frown pulled at the corners of her mouth.

"I am the elder," Faramir stated, sensing Adamira's stubborn refusal. "And your captain. My questions get answered first."

Adamira opened her mouth, prepared to argue, but then snapped it closed, hanging her head. "We should have seen them," she said softly, slowly raising her eyes to Faramir's. "We set up camp at Emyn Arnen like always. A group of orcs came upon us while we ate. Luckily, they were just as surprised by us as we were by them. And we were able to regroup faster. They outnumbered us three to one, but we managed to hold our own. Twelve less orcs are making their way across Ithilien."

"Obviously," Faramir returned. "And your arm?"

Adamira scoffed. "An orc snuck up behind me while I had my bow drawn. It was a lucky down strike at just the right moment. It won't happen again." She lifted her chin proudly. "And my arrow** still** hit its mark."

"I have no doubt," Faramir said with a laugh. "If you spent half as much time in the kitchen as you do shooting that bow, you'd be the perfect wife."

Adamira's warm smile immediately plummeted to a frown, her eyes falling to her lap. "I'm sorry, Adamira," Faramir said quickly. "I wasn't thinking. I overstepped my bounds."

"How long are you keeping the Halflings here?" Adamira requested, her expression stolid as she raised her gaze back to Faramir's.

"I want to know where they're going," Faramir replied. "They're hiding something from us."

"They're hardly bigger than children!" Adamira cried. "Faramir, this is absurd! They—"

"Captain Faramir?" Adamira and Faramir turned as a fellow ranger came up to their table. He bent down close to the pair in order to whisper: "We found the third one."

* * *

Frodo awoke as shadows fell over him. Faramir and his sister, Frodo had never caught her name, stood before them. The woman was whispering fiercely to her brother in a language Frodo did not understand, though it seemed to possess some of the same musical cadence of the language of the Elves. Finally, a resigned look passed over the woman's face and she grew quiet.

Faramir turned to Frodo. "You must come with me. Now." Frodo stood to follow as Faramir turned to his sister again, nodding towards the still figure of Sam. "Stay with him," he ordered. The young woman sighed and threw herself down on a rock to keep an eye on the still sleeping Hobbit.

Sam awoke to find Frodo missing. He sat up quickly and looked around frantically before noticing he was being watched. It was that female Ranger. The one related to Boromir. She quickly noticed that he was up and turned to face him, looking him up and down, as though analyzing him. Sam crossed his arms over his chest. After a moment, the woman leaned back against the cave wall, as though deciding he didn't require too much supervision. It was silent for a few minutes.

"Your name is Sam," the woman said abruptly, catching Sam by surprise. The astonishment must have been evident on his face as she continued. "That is correct, is it not?" Sam nodded slowly. "And you are hobbits? From the Shire?" He nodded again. The Ranger leaned forward, an interested look crossing her face. "I'm afraid I'm not sure where that is, I've never heard of it…But where are my manners? I apologize, Master Samwise. My name is Adamira, Daughter of Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor."

Adamira shook Sam's hand, a smile on her face. She'd had to lean forward in order to do so, and the light of a nearby campfire cast more light over her face. Sam noticed a thin, white line running down her left cheek, and found his curiousity prickling. There were many Hobbit women who would burst into tears merely if they got mud on their dress, and he could only imagine what they would do if they were scarred across their face. He found himself wondering how she had come across such a mark. "You are from Gondor?" he asked, unable to resist his curiosity, but not wishing to be rude by demanding first the answer to a perhaps personal question. "What is it like?"

"The White City is a breathtaking sight," Adamira replied. "During the day, the walls seem to glow from the light of the sun. The first level—"

Adamira was cut off as a commotion erupted at the entrance of the caves, and stood, craning her neck to get a better view. Sam also rose from the blanket he'd been sitting on as Frodo came into view, and was slightly startled to notice that Adamira was truly not much taller than he himself, at least not so much as men, or the few female Big People he had met, which, he had to admit, were not many. He turned his attention to Frodo as Adamira walked away without a backwards glance, towards the scene of the uproar.

* * *

The pitiful cries of the creature Gollum echoed from the passageway as Rangers continued hitting him. Faramir stood leaned against the cave wall, looking the opposite direction, his expression blank. Adamira went to stand just before her brother, the cries of Gollum causing pity to rise in her heart.

"Faramir, what are you doing?" she hissed.

Faramir turned to the men. "That's enough!" he barked. The Rangers threw Gollum to the ground where he crawled into a corner, crying, and curled into a ball. "Where are you leading them?" demanded Faramir. "Answer me!" Adamira glared at her brother, angry that there was nothing she could do to stop him. He was her superior in rank and birthright. She turned as Gollum began to speak.

"Smea...gol… Why does it cry, Sméagol?" The creature asked itself, his hand stroking his shoulder.

"Cruel men hurts us," he answered himself, sobbing. "Master tricksed us."

"Of course he did. I told you he was tricksy. I told you he was false." Adamira began to worry for the creature's sanity. It was not normal for one to talk to oneself so.

"Master is our friend… our friend!"

"Master betrayed us."

"No, not its business. Leave us alone!" Adamira watched, strangely entranced by Gollum's conversation. One minute his voice was a harsh, angry hiss; the next, a soft, scared whimper.

The creature hit its fist against the wall. "Filthy little hobbitses. They stole it from us."

"No…No!" whimpered the creature next.

"What did they steal?" asked Faramir.

The creature turned to the congregated Rangers with a ferocious expression. "Myyy… PRECIOUSSS!" Adamira jumped as Gollum bared his teeth and growled at them, her pity for the creature slightly ebbing.

* * *

Sam and Frodo were alone in their holding area. "We have to get out of here," Sam said. "You go. Go, now! You can do it. Use the Ring, Mr. Frodo," he urged. "Just this once. Put it on. Disappear."

"I can't," Frodo answered. "You were right, Sam. You tried to tell me, but… I'm sorry. The Ring's taking me Sam. If I put it on, he'll find me. He'll see."

"Mr. Frodo—" Sam was interrupted as Faramir entered, Adamira in his wake, once again talking to him in their strange mixture of Elvish. She seemed to be trying to calm him down, her tone hurried and subdued.

The hobbits stood as Faramir unsheathed his sword. "So… this is the answer to all the riddles," Faramir began. Adamira paused, her eyes, wide with apprehension, darting from Faramir, to Faramir's sword, to Frodo. "Here in the wild I have you. Two Halflings and a hoist of men at my call. The Ring of Power within my grasp." Adamira spoke again in the language of the Rangers, her voice calm, but persuasive. Faramir seemed to ignore her, lifting the Ring from Frodo's neck with his sword. **"**A chance for Faramir, captain of Gondor, to show his quality," Faramir finished.

Frodo was backed fearfully against the wall. He seemed to completely blank out for a moment, before grabbing the Ring and jerking away from Faramir. "No!" he proclaimed, running from the Captain.

"Stop it! Leave him alone!" Sam demanded as Faramir stared after Frodo. "Don't you understand? He's got to destroy it. That's where we're going. Into Mordor. To the mountain of fire."

Everyone in the room turned as another Ranger, Damrod, entered. "Osgiliath is under attack," he revealed. "They call for reinforcements."

"Please. It's such a burden," Sam pleaded. "Will you not help him?"

Indecision shone on Faramir's face, and it echoed onto Adamira's. "Captain?" asked Damrod.

"Prepare to leave. The Ring will go to Gondor." Faramir turned to leave the room. Adamira's eyes closed and her shoulders slumped as she turned to follow her brother out.

Adamira stopped when she reached the doorway and turned. Sam stared at her sadly. "I'm sorry, Sam," she said, before following Faramir.

* * *

Once outside, Adamira paused before an offshoot of the main tunnel. "Brother?" she called. Faramir paused and turned to look at her. "Might I have a word with you in private?" Her brother nodded and followed her into the offshoot.

"What is it, Adamira?" Faramir asked, concern gracing his features.

"Brother, I must ask a favor," Adamira began, her voice filled with worry. "Please, release the Hobbits. I do not like the feel of that Ring. It is evil. Allow them to take it to Mordor. Allow them to destroy it!"

"And take away the greatest weapon we could ask for in this War?" Faramir countered, his voice rising at the absurdity of Adamira's request.

"If you let them destroy it there will be no more War!" Adamira cried. "I do not want to lose another person I love to this bloodshed!"

"I've made my decision," Faramir replied. "The Ring goes to the White City." He turned to leave.

"Faramir, I beg you! No good can come of that trinket," Adamira pleaded. "Are you so desperate for Father's approval that you will put our people at risk?" Adamira new as soon as she'd spoken that she'd overstepped her bounds.

Faramir turned back to face his sister, walking toward her until she was forced to take a step back because of his proximity. Adamira feared for a moment that he would strike her, or shake her at the very least. Anger flared in his eyes and his voice was deathly low. "I am the Captain, Adamira, not you. I've stated my decision and I expect you to follow my orders. The Ring will go to Gondor. Prepare to move out. We head to Osgiliath at first light." He started to turn away, but then turned back. "If you no longer wish to follow my orders afterwards, you can go back to Minas Tirith where you belong."

Adamira glared at her brother for a moment longer, wishing she could change his mind, refusing to reveal how much his words had stung. She knew he didn't mean them, and that he would find her after he had cooled down and apologize, but that didn't make the blow lessen at the moment. Finally, she bowed her head, defeated. "Yes, Captain." She quickly left the tunnel to follow her orders.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review and tell me what you think!

Lauren


	2. Chapter 2

**Chap. ****2**

Adamira walked beside her brother leading five horses, her own among them. Thy followed her steadily, trusting her not to lead them astray_. If only Men were so trusting,_ Adamira thought as they neared the last ridge before the fortress of Osgiliath. _How history would be rewritten!_ Shouts came from men that had already crested the fold, and Adamira reined in her scattered thoughts, listening to the panic and fear in many of the men's voices. Osgiliath was burning; Mordor had come. The company paused atop the ridge, taking in the view. Smoke did indeed issue from the city, swirling in its smoky grey dance toward the heavens above.

"The Ring will not save Gondor." Frodo's voice came from just ahead of them, where he stood in the grip of another Ranger. Adamira had made a point to keep the strange pair of Halflings and their guide in her sight throughout the trip, her sharp eyes catching even the smallest stumble or breath. "It has only the power to destroy. Please, let me go."

"_Muindor, lastathog?_" Adamira advised, the presence of the Ring pressing on her mind. She did not like its ominous company, and didn't understand how the young Hobbit could stand to wear such a malevolent trinket around his neck. If it were her, she would cast it far away, and desperately wished her brother entertained the same thoughts.

Faramir hesitated for a moment, leading Adamira to cling to the small hope that her words had somehow penetrated his thoughts, before he pressed them on. "Hurry!"

"Faramir, you must let me go!" Frodo pleaded as he and Sam were pushed on towards the besieged city.

Adamira began to descend towards Osgiliath, able to see the White City out of the corner of her eye in the distance. Her father was somewhere in its depths, possibly watching from his tower as the smoke rising from Osgiliath mingled with the already clouded air. Anger burned its way into the pit of her stomach as these thoughts swam through her mind. Why was he not sending aid from Minas Tirith? He was Steward of Gondor; it was his job to see to the protection of its cities!

But no matter. What was done was done, and as Adamira began to make out the shapes of men in the ruined city below, scurrying about like children in a festival maze, she centered her mind on the task ahead. A true war was brewing just over the horizon; she could feel it deep in her bones and soul. When it came, she would be ready.

As the Rangers entered the city, Adamira lost grip of the horses as rocks fell and arrows flew around them. The horses bolted, shrieking in panic as they charged in all directions through the fray. There was nothing Adamira could do for them, even though she wanted to charge after them and keep them safe. She was to defend her country; her people's safety exceeded in importance that of a few frightened horses. She stayed by her brother and Captain, keeping the hobbits in the corner of her eye as well.

"Faramir!" called Madril, making his way through the men swarming the area. "The Orcs have taken the eastern shore. Their numbers are too great. By nightfall we'll be overrun." He then sighted the small hobbits, curiosity running rampant through the lines of his face.

Faramir followed his lieutenant's gaze as it rested on the Halflings. "Take them to my father," he instructed. "Tell him Faramir sends a mighty gift. A weapon that will change our fortunes in this war."

_But change them how?_ Adamira thought darkly. _For better or worse?_

Madril was beginning to lead Frodo, Sam, and Gollum away when Sam broke from the group. "Do you want to know what happened to Boromir?" Sam asked, bringing Faramir and Adamira's attention. "You want to know why your brother died? He tried to take the ring from Frodo. After swearing an oath to protect him, he tried to kill him! The Ring drove your brother mad!"

Adamira wanted to argue the truth of the Hobbit's words, and was poised to speak until, nearby, a soldier cried out as a boulder shattered a tower, raining debris over everyone. Faramir stood stone still as Frodo's eyes rolled back in his head as he began to speak in a strange voice. Adamira froze, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end as the shriek of the dreaded Nazgul echoed in her ears. The cry erupted from Faramir's throat as he threw the hobbits into a corner: "Take cover!"

Adamira rushed among the buildings, dodging rocks, arrows, and men. She turned to look behind her before hitting the ground with a thud, tripping over a fallen pillar. She slowly rose and leaned against a wall, trying to regain the air that had been snatched from her lungs. She closed her eyes, listening to what was going on around her as she struggled to regulate her breathing. Men were yelling warnings and orders to their comrades; debris was falling around her in a life-threatening rain; the shriek of the Nazgul was ever present. Adamira exhaled and brushed the dirt from her vest before opening her eyes, merging the scenes with the sounds to create the chaos unfolding before her.

Looking around, she spotted a doorway to a tower and ran for it, dodging the rocks falling around her. Once inside, she followed the crumbling stone stairs up, up, up, until she reached a hole that had been blasted into the side of the tower. Stepping around the debris, as well as the corpses of two of her countrymen, Adamira looked out of the opening to see a mass of orcs converging on Osgiliath, catapults launching more life-threatening stones toward the already-crumbling city. Nazgul swooped over the city, seeming to come from all directions.

Adamira grabbed her bow from its place on her back, stringing it quickly as a Nazgul swooped near. She pulled an arrow from her quiver, the feathers soft against the skin of her hands as she nocked it, pulling it back to the corner of her mouth. She lined her arrow up with the Nazgul's foreleg, and then angled her shot to where she knew the creature's vital organs to be. Drawing a slow breath to calm herself, Adamira then released her arrow, watching it fly across the fields toward the foul beast of Mordor. The creature shrieked as her arrow embedded itself in its hide, but Adamira guessed she'd missed the beast's vital organs, as it swooped away and headed back toward the orcs amassing near the river. That was one arrow she would not be getting back.

Turning back the way she'd come, Adamira descended the stairs slowly, unstringing her bow and returning it to her quiver. As she turned her feet toward where she'd last seen her brother, she noticed the eerie silence that had descended on Osgiliath: the Nazgul's shrieks had fallen silent; no more boulders rained on the city. A strange calm had descended, and as Adamira returned to the center of Osgiliath, her mouth fell open at the sight awaiting her. Sam was on the ground, approximately a hundred feet from her, with Frodo on top of him, a sword in his hand, holding it at Sam's throat.

Adamira started to rush over, not wanting either Hobbit to be killed, but then paused as Frodo rose and stumbled, collapsing against a wall and dropping his sword. Sam got up slowly. Frodo's mouth was moving, but Adamira couldn't make out words. Sam however, spoke out clearly.

"… wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are." Sam leaned against a wall, looking out across Pellinor Fields. "It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?"

Adamira walked forward and leaned against a pillar that had managed to remain standing, far enough away so as not to interrupt the rather insightful Halfling. "But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back only they didn't. They kept going because they were holding onto something."

Adamira could see Gollum standing in a corner nearby, and her brother and some of the men not far from him. This time she could hear what Frodo said. "What are we holding onto, Sam?"

Sam knelt over Frodo, helping him stand. "That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered. "And it's worth fighting for."

Adamira joined the other Rangers as Faramir walked over and knelt in front of Frodo. "At last we understand one another, Frodo Baggins." Adamira couldn't help the smile that formed as she realized her brother's intentions: he was letting them go!

"You know the laws, Faramir," Madril interrupted. "Release them, and your life will be forfeited."

"Then it is forfeit," Faramir countered. "Release them." Adamira's smile widened at the joy evident on the hobbits' faces as Sam shook Faramir's arm from his shoulder and Frodo smiled as their bonds were removed, though in the back of her mind she worried as to her brother's fate. After the hobbits had calmed down, Faramir asked they wait just a moment longer. He turned to Adamira and nodded: a silent order to follow.

She followed him up the stairs to the bridge Frodo had been on. "Adamira, I need you to ride to Rohan." Adamira immediately moved to argue. Her place was here! Why would she go to Rohan? "Wait, before you say anything. Osgiliath will soon be overrun without reinforcements. After Osgiliath, Mordor's forces will be in direct route to Minas Tirith. You must go to Rohan and request assistance."

"Alone? Why me? Why not someone else?" Adamira asked. She wanted to be here to watch out for her brother and her comrades. She didn't want to leave just before a war was going to break out! "I can ride to Minas Tirith and send a messenger—"

"You are the fastest rider here, Adamira. And anyone else would just slow you down. You know this." Faramir replied, cutting off his sister's protests. "Also, I hope you will be able to persuade King Théoden. I hear he can be stubborn at times, just like you." Adamira gave a small smile at his last comment. Faramir came closer. "Adamira, please, I need you to do this for me." He turned, facing the fields crowded with orcs. "Look at that, Adamira. Within hours those vile creatures will be swarming over Osgiliath, then Minas Tirith. Unless we can get reinforcements."

"Alright, I'll go," Adamira said with a sigh. Faramir was right; they didn't have enough manpower to hold Gondor's defenses. She put her thumb and forefinger between her teeth, letting out a shrill whistle. She and Faramir descended back to where the hobbits were waiting as her chestnut stallion, Voronwe, galloped into sight, hearing his mistress's call.

Soldiers were attempting to fortify the city before the eminent attack. Meanwhile, Adamira and Faramir were saddling up Voronwe, while Madril was gathering supplies from what little was available. Adamira stood on one side of the regal stallion, Faramir on the other, buckling on a saddle. The saddle was lightweight and comfortable for the horse, enabling Adamira to ride quickly.

"I'll send the hobbits through the old sewer. It runs straight through to the edge of city; they'll be able to make it safely to the woods. What route will you take?" Faramir asked, tightening the breastplate across the horse's shoulders.

"The quickest possible: straight through Anorien, across the Eastfold to Edoras," answered Adamira, listening to the echoes of conversations all around her. The men were worried about the coming attack; their numbers were so few. She didn't want to leave. It didn't feel right. She leaned down to tighten the girth strap, patting Voronwe's neck as he nipped her shoulder affectionately, tracing her planned route in her mind.

"That's a four day ride," Faramir stated, looking pointedly at Madril. The lieutenant added another package of food to the pack he was making before closing it.

"I'll make it in two," Adamira returned, sliding a bridle over Voronwe's ears as he shook his mane. She picked up the pack and attached it to the saddle, securing it tightly with deft hands, before taking her cloak from Madril and fastening it around her shoulders. "I'll be back soon, with help. The White City won't fall so long as I'm living and breathing."

"I don't like sending you alone," Faramir admitted as Adamira belted her sword and sheath to her saddle. "The way across the Eastfold is teeming with Saruman's orcs. Are you certain you'll be alright?"

"I'll be fine, Faramir," Adamira assured. "Have faith in me, brother! You said it yourself: anyone else would slow me down. And any orc that wants to hurt me has to catch me first, and Voronwe would never allow that. You have more to worry about than me. I can take care of myself." She turned to mount Voronwe, but stopped as Faramir grabbed her shoulder. She turned and looked into her brother's grey eyes, so like her own.

"Be safe, 'Mira," Faramir said. He pulled her close and wrapped her in a hug. After letting her go, his hand remained with hers. He ran his hand over the ring on Adamira's finger before looking her straight in the eye. "And learn to let go." He released her hand with a nod.

Adamira mounted her steed and spurred him on. She had exited the city and crested a hill when she halted her horse for a last glimpse at Osgiliath. She then looked down at her left hand, and the golden ring sitting on her third finger. "I don't think I'll ever be able to let go," she murmured to herself before turning her attention to her horse. "Honor your ancestors, Voronwe. We must hurry. The White City cannot fall." And with that, she pressed her heels into Voronwe's sides, and they were galloping at top speed toward Rohan and the halls of Theoden King.

* * *

**Translations:_ (Sindarin)_**

Translations come from the wonderful Certh! 

_Muindor, lastathog?_: Brother, will you listen?


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thanks for all of your support on this! I hope you enjoy the next chapter!

**Chap. 3**

Adamira rode all day, as hard as she could press her stallion into going. She could no longer feel her fingers gripped on Voronwe's reins; her muscles were beginning to burn from being in the saddle so long. The sky had long ago darkened, and Adamira could feel Voronwe tiring, even as she herself yawned. She knew once told to go, he wouldn't stop until told. He'd run himself to death before slowing down. Such was his way. Hardy and reliable, he'd been Adamira's companion for ten years, and her steed for eight. In all that time, he had never stumbled, never bucked her off. Hence his name was one meaning 'the steadfast one.'

Adamira scanned the land around her, slowing Voronwe's gallop into a smooth trot as she searched the sparse plains for a suitable campsite. She wouldn't know for certain until she looked at a map, but she estimated that Voronwe had carried her nearly half the distance already. She knew they'd be able to reach Edoras the next day, but only if Voronwe was able to rest and regain his strength. She spotted a small outcropping of rocks that would be able to shield a campfire from any enemy eyes, and made for it, warily examining the plains for any sign of friend or foe.

Adamira stopped Voronwe as they reached the outcropping, dismounting and surveying her chosen spot. The rocks were taller than her, and one even leaned against two others, making her a shelter should it happen to rain. Nearby, Adamira heard the babbling of a small brook, tracing its way across the grasslands. Adamira began unsaddling Voronwe, praising him for his speed and endurance as she scrutinized his sweat-lathered flanks and heavy breathing. Depositing the saddle and tack on the ground near her stallion's feet, she reached in her pack and pulled out two brushes, the wooden handles worn smooth from frequent use. Good, Madril had remembered.

Adamira ran Voronwe down with the stiffer-bristled brush first, removing dirt, sweat, and hair. The softer-bristled brush came next, removing any left-over dirt particles. Adamira noted a lot of longer, thicker hair coming with the brushes. Her horse was losing his winter coat. After brushing out his mane and tail, Adamira returned the brushes to her pack, replacing them with a small metal rod. She proceeded to pick mud and stones from Voronwe's hoofs. Afterwards, she ran his leg muscles down with her hands, massaging the tense muscles until they relaxed their quivering, slowing with her administrations. Adamira needed Voronwe to be well cared for. If she neglected just one step in this, dirt could get caught up under the saddle and cause sores, or he could stumble and break a leg, or he could go lame. Without Voronwe, by the time Adamira reached Edoras, Minas Tirith would be conquered.

When her stallion's coat shined clean and sweat-free, Adamira led Voronwe over to the brook, the singing water calming her as she listened to its song mingle with Voronwe's snorts and gulps as he drank. She knelt down beside him and filled her waterskin with the fresh, clear water, before cupping her hands and taking several large gulps herself. After letting the large charger drink his well-deserved fill, Adamira led him back to the rocks, where he began to snuffle her face, hair, and clothes, his hot breath tickling her ears. Adamira immediately knew what he wanted, and obligingly pulled an apple from her pocket.

"You insufferable, greedy thing!" Adamira cried as he took the apple from her hand. "If you could speak, you would betray all of Gondor to Mordor, in exchange for one measly apple!" Her mock-chastising tone fell as Voronwe fixed his large, warm brown eyes on her, nipping her affectionately on the shoulder. "Eat your apples," she said softly as she pulled another from her pocket, patting his neck once he'd taken it. "You've earned them, my friend."

* * *

It wasn't until Voronwe, a forest green blanket on his back, was grazing contentedly on the grassy plains that Adamira looked to her own needs. She dug a small pit to build her fire in, and filled it with limbs from a small bush nearby. After covering the limbs with the dry grasses that grew abundantly across Rohan's plains, she lit the kindling. It took her a few tries, as her fingers were still stiff from gripping the reins all day, but she eventually had a warm fire going. She removed a pack of food from her saddlebags, opening it to find bread and cold meat. She found a suitable rock and put the meat on it, putting the rock by the fire. While she waited for the meat to heat up, Adamira unpacked her bedroll and laid it out underneath her rock shelter before returning to the fire, pulling out some maps and tracing her planned route across the plains, the crackling fire a friendly companion and suitable light.

Eating was a lonely affair, and Adamira wished she'd brought someone with her on this journey. She then laughed to herself; none of the other Rangers could have joined her. She loved her comrades like brothers, and would fight fiercely to defend every one of them, but Adamira had to admit that none of them would have made good companions on this trip. They were men, and they were soldiers. As such, they would have wished to charge across the plains in full armor, laden down with weapons just in case they happened to come across an orc. Not only would they slow their horses down with the weight of them, their armor, and their weapons, but they would hardly seem peaceful as they charged into Edoras and demanded reinforcements. Adamira knew why her brother had sent her on this mission. She knew speed and subtlety were critical in this, not strength in arms. Her armor had remained in Osgiliath, as had anything else that was unnecessary and would only weigh her down, like her extra daggers and arrows, maps of anywhere other than Rohan, and the book she'd been reading. Her objective was to go to Edoras, request help, and return to Gondor, preferably with the news that the Rohirrim were on their way, as swiftly as possible. She could accomplish that objective faster alone than with an escort.

After eating, Adamira lay down in her bedroll. She could see the stars through a hole where the rocks leaned on each other. They twinkled brightly, as though mocking her, bragging that they, unlike she herself, were unaffected by war. Adamira turned on her side, away from the stars. She wasn't in the mood for stars when the other Rangers could be dying. She watched as Voronwe lay down across from her, on the other side of the fire. The fire! Adamira sprang up, narrowly missing hitting her head on the rock above her, and crawled over to the fire. She spread dirt over it to put it out, before returning to bed. She didn't think anyone could see the fire, but she didn't want it to burn out of control while she was sleeping, either. Finally settled, she pulled her blanket up over her and finally drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Adamira woke the next morning refreshed, her energy rejuvenated. She looked over at Voronwe, and found he was still sleeping. She smiled and repacked everything, humming as she went. She and Voronwe would ride hard and fast today, but their reward when they reached Edoras would be a hot bath for Adamira and a warm bed of hay for Voronwe. From the height of the sun in the clouded sky, Adamira realized she'd slept later than she should have, and so chose to forego breakfast. She walked over to Voronwe and woke the sleeping stallion. While he munched on an apple and the grass at his feet, she rubbed his legs down again before saddling him up and preparing him for the journey ahead. She then led him to the brook for the last time, allowing him to quench his thirst while she washed her face, the final traces of sleep washing away. After making sure no enemies would be able to tell she'd ever even considered stepping foot near these rocks or this brook, she mounted and pushed Voronwe into a gallop toward Edoras once again.

* * *

Aragorn stood on the steps of Meduseld, watching the villagers scurry below. Gandalf and Pippin had just left for Minas Tirith on Shadowfax, seeking to warn the Steward of Gondor that Sauron was planning to attack. His thoughts roaming, Aragorn watched the people scurrying like ants for a few moments more before returning inside. "These people need to return to their villages," he said to King Théoden, who was sitting at a table with his sister-son Éomer, going over plans. "There isn't enough room for them in the city."

"You are right, Aragorn, but they cannot go without protection," Théoden replied. "Orcs still roam across the land just waiting for the chance to attack."

"Gimli, Legolas, and I will go," Aragorn volunteered. Legolas and Gimli stood from their tables where they were dining, eager to follow their friend wherever he wished to go. Aragorn felt that he could never repay them for their loyalty. They had stood by him since they'd left Rivendell, trusting him not to lead them astray. Aragorn only wished he trusted himself so well.

"I'll join you," Éomer said, returning Aragorn's brooding thoughts to the present. He stood from the table as well, turning to his uncle in search for approval. "We need to see what our people need before we make anymore plans."

"Fine," said Théoden, "but return quickly. We must be ready, whether for war or not." The two men, elf, and dwarf left the hall to prepare. The city was stifling with so many people crammed into it, and all four were eager to escape into the open plains.

* * *

Rain had begun to fall across the plains. Not light rain, hard rain, which leeched the heat from Adamira's body slowly but steadily, causing shivers to course up and down her spine. Adamira could barely see Voronwe's ears in front of her face where she leaned against his neck. It was frustrating to no end; she'd wanted to be in Edoras by now. She felt Voronwe almost stumble, so she slowed him to a trot. She knew from her maps that there should be a town with an inn close by, and she angled Voronwe in what she thought was the right direction. Though it went against all of her desires, she and Voronwe would stop there to wait for the rain to lessen. With any luck, they would be put behind schedule only by a few hours, and she could still reach Edoras before nightfall. Adamira stopped and dismounted as Voronwe almost fell again, worried that her weght was causing him worse trouble. She led him up a rolling hill, carefully, so not to slip and fall back down the slope. At the top she stopped, just barely making out a dark mass that could only be a town just below. Thankfully, it had been even closer than she'd thought.

"Don't worry, Voronwe," Adamira said reassuringly, more for herself than the horse, though she didn't want to admit it. "A town is just below. In a minute, you'll be in a warm stable with fresh hay to eat." She was extremely careful going down the hill, and still slipped more than once, barely keeping herself upright. Once they reached the bottom, she sped up, not quite as worried about stumbling on even ground. The mass was drawing gradually closer, enabling Adamira to vaguely discern the peaked roofs of buildings through the blinding sheets of rain separating her from the town's warmth and safety.

Finally, they reached where the gate of the town should've been.

"Oh no," Adamira gasped, beholding the sight in front of her. "We have to leave this place!"

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! Please review and tell me what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chap. 4**

Adamira stood stone still, horror evident on her face, in front of where the town's gate should have been—_should have_ being a key phrase in that sentence, Adamira noted to herself. Two posts stood there instead, silent wardens to the black, twisted mass laid out behind them, their heavy doors, blackened by soot and ash, charred and barely hanging by broken hinges. Impaled upon the posts were the severed heads of two men, their hair matted with mud and tangled into gnarled masses as though telling of the struggles that had taken the lives of these Rohirrim, their lifeless eyes staring at her, as though begging her to save them from whatever cruel fate had left them like this. Despite the impulse to turn and run as far away as she could, Adamira steeled herself and stepped through the small gap between the two doors, widening it so that Voronwe could follow. She wiped the black soot that clung to her fingers onto her pants leg as she and Voronwe entered the charred remnants of a town she was sure was once full of life.

She took the chance of peeking into a few doorways through the rain, and knew the people had not expected the attack—but then, how often did an enemy say: _Prepare yourself, for I plan to attack your town in two days' time?_ In the remnants of a two-story building she was sure was the inn she would've stayed in, bodies were slumped against tables, twisted remnants of tankards clasped in their dead fingers. She entered and examined some arrow shafts and, recognizing the steel barbs and shafts, as well as the black feathers—all of which she had, at some time or another, pulled out of various parts of her comrades' bodies, as well as her own—found that this massacre was from orcs and uruk-hai.

Anger searing its way through her gut, Adamira exited the ruined inn and continued her search for survivors. Dead animals were all over the street, dead people in every charred building. The horrible stench of decaying flesh, burning Adamira's nose even through the rain, identified the attack as a few days old. When Adamira reached the center of the town, her stomach lurched, almost causing whatever was left from her dinner the night before to spill over the muddy street. Voronwe began to get skittish, prancing from side to side and snorting, clouds of steam puffing from his nostrils. Through the still pouring rain hammering down on them, Adamira could smell the gruesome stench of decaying flesh stronger here than in any other part of the ransacked town. In the town square, dead animals and people alike had been piled up and burned— a charred, stinking mass with small columns of smoke persistently rising from the ashes in defiance of the steady stream of water intent on extinguishing the smoldering, makeshift pyre. Adamira bowed her head and closed her eyes in respect for the fallen. She silently prayed to the Valar that the massacred would find peace after death. The orcs had left none in their deadly wake. Even children were in the pile, their once-smiling, innocent faces twisted into gaping, silent screams.

Adamira looked up, startled, as new sounds reached her ears—footsteps shuffling in the mud, splashing through puddles. Kinsmen searching for survivors? Or the culprits of this disaster? Knowing not whether the sounds came from friend or foe, Adamira grabbed Voronwe's reins, leading him into a house that still managed to hold its walls, though they were charred and seemed capable of collapsing at any time. Rain made a thick curtain across the door, and she prayed it would be enough to shield her from the eyes of who, or what, still remained in the ruined town.

The scuffling grew louder, and Adamira held her breath as a group of three orcs came around the corner by the pile of bodies. Adamira froze, unblinking, as one stopped just in front of her hiding place.

"Do you smell that?" it grunted to its companions, its rough, guttural voice sending shivers down Adamira's spine. During all of her years as a Ranger, Adamira had still never managed to get used to the sound of an orc's voice: the language it spoke was the language of Men, but the cadence and tenor were entirely animalistic.

"Of course we smell it," another answered. "Those rotting humans are stinking up the whole area."

"No, not the bodies you fool," the first replied. "I smell something….alive. A human."

The third orc sniffed the air. "I don't smell anything, Gristz. Now come on."

The orcs began to somber on, and Adamira slowly let out the breath she'd been holding, trying to steady her racing heart. That had been close. Much closer than was at all comfortable. She began to scan the house, searching for a back exit. She found one— a single threshold with its door hanging from its hinges— and grabbed Voronwe's bridle, ready to lead him out. They needed to escape this town undetected. Between rain and orcs, Adamira would most certainly take the rain. Her clothes could dry; but if she was killed before reaching Edoras, more lives than solely hers would be affected. Voronwe took a few steps and started, whinnying and snorting in pain as he stamped one of his hooves against the stone floor, the sounds seeming to echo in Adamira's ears. Adamira's eyes widen in alarm as she heard the pounding of orc feet rushing back toward her hiding place. Her eyes darted back and forth along the dimly-lit floor around her stallion's feet, and saw that Voronwe had stepped on a shattered bottle. Green shards of glass littered the floor, a piece of which had most likely gotten stuck in his foot. She silently groaned at the horrible timing that seemed to be plaguing her.

"Where'd it come from?" she heard an orc cry. Maybe she still had some time.

Adamira quickly lifted Voronwe's hoof. She'd been right; a rather large piece of glass was stuck under his hoof, embedded in the soft sole. She went to pull it out, but Voronwe began to whinny again. She tried to quiet him, her eyes darting to the door. An orc stood in front of it, casting a shadow across Adamira's face. "It came from up here!" he called to the others.

Adamira thought fast. The back exit was about ten feet behind her. If she could lead Voronwe out, maybe she'd have enough time to get the glass out of Voronwe's hoof and get out of the orc-infested town before she was discovered. She dropped Voronwe's hoof and rubbed his neck as she grabbed the reins. She made quiet shushing noises, leading a limping Voronwe towards the only exit.

"Check all the buildings!" Adamira heard an orc order. She was five feet from the exit as the orc outside began to move towards the entrance to her building. Adamira's heart jumped into her throat, and she began to lead Voronwe a little faster towards the door, apologizing as she went for the pain she was causing him. She had the door open when she heard the orc call.

"It's this one! I've found them!" Adamira rushed the rest of the way out of the doorway, pushing the door closed as soon as Voronwe's rump had made it through. Searching for something to hinder her pursuers, lightening illuminated a plank of wood that had managed to escape the ravaging fire that had engulfed the building. Adamira quickly snatched it from its resting place and propped it against the door. She knew it wouldn't hold long; the door was charred and already hanging from its hinges, but perhaps it would buy her enough time to tend to Voronwe's hoof and mount. She rushed to pick up Voronwe's foot as she heard orcs begin to pound on the door, feeling the frail wood giving behind her. She quickly jerked the glass from Voronwe's hoof, ignoring his painful whinny, and mounted as the door began to break, a sharp crack warning of the orcs' close proximity. With a quick kick in his ribs, Voronwe began to gallop through the still-pouring rain.

Adamira pushed Voronwe around corners quickly, trying to get the uruk-hai off her trail. There were obviously more than just the three she'd seen at first, as she kept hearing them coming after her. Or perhaps her imagination was making the situation worse? She pushed Voronwe around a tight left corner and found herself back on the main road. Orcs were all along the road, lightening illuminating their dark, hulking shapes. Manwë! How many were there? Voronwe veered, and they were heading toward where they'd come into the town. The orcs and uruk-hai rushed to block her in, pressing in on all sides.

They brandished their weapons towards Voronwe, hoping to frighten him into rearing, but succeeded only in causing him to stop, prancing side to side. Voronwe had been trained specifically for war; little could truly frighten him. Adamira drew her sword, Sereglîr , from its sheath at Voronwe's side. Several orcs backed away in fear of the blade, while others were unfazed. Adamira cut down three orcs blocking her way, staining the blade black. She swung the blade again, and it was met with an orc's scimitar. The unexpected clash jarred her arm painfully, but Adamira was careful not to drop her sword, meeting the orc again. On her next sweep, Adamira changed direction abruptly, surprising the orc and leaving him unguarded. Her blade met orc flesh, and the orc fell to the ground at Voronwe's feet. The warhorse reared as his instinct and breeding took hold. Adamira pressed her knees desperately into his sides in attempt to hang on as he brought his hoofs down, crushing an orc skull.

An opening was finally spotted in the orc horde, and Adamira led Voronwe through it. Orcs tried pressing in, and one even dared to slash out with his blade. Adamira yelped in pain as it left a large gash across her calf. She instinctively reached down to grip the slash, unintentionally instructing Voronwe to turn around as warm blood stained her hand. He charged straight for the mass, snorting a challenge to the enemy ahead. Adamira tried to stop him, but it was too late. One orc grabbed a spear and held it out directly in her path. It swept her to the ground with a hard thud, pain surging up her back as the air was snatched from her lungs. Half the orcs went for the horse, while the other half surged toward Adamira. She was on her knees and pulled her dagger from her belt, her sword lost somewhere out of sight as she gulped air into her body. The hair on the back of her neck stood up as the cool metal of a scimitar slid up against her throat.

"Well, what do we have here?" an animalistic voice growled in her ear. Adamira shuddered involuntarily. "I'd drop that dagger if I were you."

Adamira was thrown to the floor inside the building the orcs had made their camp. Her wrists and ankles had been bound tightly. Orcs pressed in around her, peering at her with warped, depraved snarls on their faces.

"Which part should we eat first?" one orc asked. Adamira turned her head with a grimace as it bent down and ran its finger across the gash on her leg. He licked the blood off his finger. "She's tasty, too!" he exclaimed, a maniacal laugh escaping his throat. For his words, Adamira awarded him with a swift, well-placed kick in the face, satisfied as she heard the crunching of bone. The orc snarled and moved to pounce toward her, black blood running down his chin from the twisted remnants of his nose, and Adamira steeled herself for the most disadvantaged fight she'd ever been in.

"Get away from her!" roared the uruk-hai Adamira assumed was the leader. Adamira thought it ironic that she should feel relieved when the orc backed down, considering that she recognized the voice as the same Uruk-hai who had put a dagger to her throat only a moment ago. "No one is touching her! Yet. Bring her to me!" An orc grabbed Adamira by her neck and pulled her forward, throwing her on her knees before their leader.

He tilted her head up and stared at her. She glared back defiantly. She refused to be intimidated by these vile creatures spawned from the depths of Mordor and Isengard, even though the Uruk was easily twice her body weight, and would have towered over her easily even if she had been standing. He knelt down to her level, grabbing her chin roughly. "I have you at my mercy," he growled.

Adamira replied by spitting in the orc's face. He snarled and turned away, wiping the spit off. He then glared at her before his fist collided with her jaw. Adamira hissed, clenching her teeth and closing her eyes as a steel gauntlet left a gash on her cheek. She blinked the stars out of her eyes before returning to glaring at the orc, the taste of blood flooding her mouth. "She will be broken," the orc announced to his group. "But not yet. Put her over in the corner, and if anyone touches her, your hide is mine!" Adamira was again dragged over to a corner, away from the orcs, and thrown unceremoniously to the floor.

She watched as they dug through her pack, eating all of her food, and silently thanked Madril for packing so much, as it was probably the only thing keeping _her_ from being dinner instead…_or at least the entertainment during dinner_, she thought morbidly. She then remembered that she hadn't eaten since the night before and tried to ignore her own stomach growling, forcing the thought of food from her mind. She'd been without food for longer than this before; there would be time to eat once she got out of this predicament.

Leaving a prisoner alone for a while was an effective form of torture for most people, Adamira mused. Any other would perhaps be sitting there, trembling as they allowed themself to dwell on the possibilities of their fate at the hands of their captors, but not Adamira. She didn't allow herself to dwell on her fate because, if she had any say in it, she would not have a fate where these orcs were concerned. From the moment the orcs had thrown her in this dirty, grimy corner, Adamira's thoughts had turned to escape. She looked around the room, analyzing the situation, taking note of ever door and window, and was startled to find a pair of deep brown eyes locked on her own.

Another prisoner sat tied up near Adamira. With the pale hair of the Rohirrim, he appeared much younger than she…hardly out of adolescence. Bearing the sinewy build of a soldier, he had been stripped of his armor, which was piled near him. Clad only in thin breeches, deep bruises marred his face and his bare chest; a festering gash stretched from his shoulder down his arm, stopping just before his elbow. He was watching her, a look of inquiry on his face. As Adamira watched, his gaze shifted to one of— was it pity? Adamira couldn't stop the scowl that stretched across her face. She'd had enough pity to last her a lifetime. She didn't need it, nor did she want it.

Adamira turned away from her fellow hostage, and her gaze was caught by a glint of light. Her sword, Sereglîr, lay across the lap of an orc who was softly caressing the blade, the silver of the unsheathed weapon the source of the light that had caught Adamira's attention. Bile rose in her throat as the greedy orc's grimy hands ran their way over one of her most prized possessions. Adamira's thoughts turned to her quickly-developing escape plan. She would have to find some way to recapture possession of her blade during her getaway. She wasn't leaving without it.

Adamira watched and observed from her spot, trying to ignore the leers orcs continuously shot in her direction. Father Time trudged slowly across the land as the day wore on, fading into twilight, the shadows lengthening as Lady Night dropped her starry cape over the Eastfold and the small, ransacked village in which a lone Ranger sought out weaknesses in the net of her captors. As far as Adamira saw, the fools didn't even post watch! She prepared the finishing touches on her plan. When the moment came, she'd be ready.

* * *

**Translations:** (Sindarin)

**Sereglîr**- roughly, Bloodsong

Translation from Hisweloke's Sindarin Dictionary


	5. Chapter 5

**Chap. 5**

The last embers of the orcs' fire were burning low, unattended by the orcs sleeping around it. Night had fallen over the decrepit village, and Adamira was ready to make her escape. Diligently had she watched, waiting patiently as each orc nodded off one by one, leaving their captives unguarded. Diligently had she waited, surveying every possible route by which to escape, the wheels in her mind spinning as her ideas blended together.

Adamira carefully moved her tied wrists so that she was sitting on her hands. Shift then she did, until her arms had moved a semi-circle under her legs and around her body, and now rested in front of her. She grimaced at the sight of the dingy rope, but what other choice did she have? Adamira studied the entwined knots for a moment before raising her wrists to her mouth, manipulating the knots with her teeth. She wanted the rope in her mouth for as little time as possible, and so had traced the path it wound around her wrists and through the knot. Before long, her wrists were free and her fingers quickly and nimbly untied her ankles. She felt eyes on her and looked to see that her fellow captive, the soldier of Rohan, was awake and watching.

Adamira attempted to stand and winced as pain shot through her left leg. She leaned against the wall, careful not to make noise for fear of rousing the orcs. Ripping a ribbon of fabric from the hem of her shirt, she swiftly made a makeshift bandage around the gash on her calf. Adamira steeled herself, testing the weight-bearing capabilities of her leg, and made her way to where her pack lay rummaged through, her food packs scattered, only crumbs remaining. She hastily bent next to the worn leather pack, which had seen her through many a sticky situation, though this current predicament easily topped the list. Glancing at the orcs around her, she scooped everything back into the pack and cinched it closed silently. She shouldered it and moved to the orc who had her sword.

Sereglîr was wrapped in his grubby clutches, a faint light from the smoldering embers of the dying fire dancing across the silver of the unsheathed blade, the sword's sheath still being attached to Voronwe's saddle. Adamira moved to touch the sword and the orc shifted in his sleep with a growl-like grunt. Adamira froze, holding her breath. The Valar were holding Adamira in favor this night, for the orc slumbered on. Adamira slowly released her breath and glanced around. A broken spear shaft lay on the floor nearby. She picked it up and carefully maneuvered it into the orc's clutches, swiftly removing Sereglîr as the orc wrapped his grubby fingers around the shaft, snuggling it close.

Picking her way across the room, the ghost of a shadow amid the unconscious orcs, Adamira knelt to a crouch before the young soldier. "My name is Adamira," she said, her voice a barely audible whisper as she examined the gash in the soldier's arm: his skin, a flaming red and oozing with pus, burned at her touch. She felt his forehead and her result was the same. She reached toward the bonds around his wrists, wishing she had access to her stock of herbs, which were currently somewhere in the sprawling city of Minas Tirith, far beyond her reach. "You need a Healer."

Adamira forced herself not to scream as the man's hand latched onto her wrist, causing her heart to jump into her throat, her pulse quickening in surprise. "They're all gone…" he whispered, frenzy in his eyes as he strengthened his vice-grip on Adamira's arm. "They-they ate them. All of them!" Adamira clapped her hand over his mouth as his voice rose, threatening the success of her plan.

Her eyes searched the room for any sign she was discovered. The orcs seemed to slumber on, oblivious to the activities of their hostages, though Adamira did spot several piles of armor in the room. Adamira returned her attention to the panicked soldier before her as the bile rose in her throat. Gently forcing the young Rohir to release his grip on her arm, wincing at the sight of the red marks she was sure would darken into a bruise, she focused on untying the soldier's wrists so as not to lose the contents of her stomach as her mind puzzled over the unfortunate fate of his comrades. "You're coming with me," she declared, refusing to abandon the soldier to a brutal, merciless death at the hands of the orcs. She pulled him to his feet as she stood, wrapping his arm around her shoulders in order to support him in this most dangerous part of her escape attempt.

Adamira picked her way through the humped forms of the orcs, dragging the man with her as silently as possible. Her brothers had once told her she moved even quieter than a shadow, always disappearing without a sound before one could even be certain they'd seen her. Of course, this was said when she had been uninjured and had not had the weight of a full-grown, heavily muscled man— one who must have never been told the same analogy, due to the lumbering shuffle of his feet that seemed to echo in the still, tense silence— bearing down on her as she moved.

While crucial among the trees of Ithilien, skills at hide-and-go-seek would be useless when in the open and surrounded by orcs eager to rip her flesh from her bone. Adamira again froze as a floorboard creaked under her boots. She glanced around, but no orcs moved. _They truly must feel secure in their refuge to allow themselves to sleep so deeply_, Adamira thought. _That or they simply feel that I am an idiot._ She made it to the door with no further incident, thanking the Valar as she stepped over the last slumbering orc. Adamira slipped through the opening left in the partially-closed door easily, and her fellow captive followed in a much less stealthy fashion. Once outside, she inhaled several breaths of fresh night air, glad to be away from the rancid orc stench that burned her nose and constricted her lungs. She glanced at the deep blue horizon, absent of twinkling stars or the guiding light of the moon, thanking the Valar for the added darkness.

Adamira noticed Voronwe tied to a post, as though she'd simply left him there for a moment while shopping in the streets of the White City. He spotted her and let out a whinny of welcome, sending the hairs on the nape of Adamira's neck on edge as his voice shattered the silent night. Limping as quickly as possible while guiding the soldier as she heard stirring in the burnt house the orcs had adopted as a base, Adamira silently plotted to possibly remove her stallion's vocal cords. Thrusting Sereglîr into the sheath next to the saddle, she untied the reins as the Rohirrim warrior mounted, and vaulted onto the back of her stallion behind him as she heard an echoing crash, daring to peek over her shoulder to see the door being broken down. Voronwe had just begun leaping forward at her command when she found herself thrown to the ground by an unseen orc who had been patrolling the area. Adamira looked up into the sneering face of the orc leader before his boot slammed into her face. Black spots flooded her vision and she felt blood streaming from her nose, her pulse thudding in her ears. In the back of her mind, a section that was unfazed by being held captive by a band of orcs, she appreciated the irony of being kicked in the face.

With a cry of pain, Adamira was hauled to her feet, dragged back inside the gutted house she'd just thought she'd escaped, and unceremoniously thrown to the ground. Struggling to rise, she felt a hand wrap around her throat and was brought face-to-face with the Uruk-hai. He had knelt down beside her, a sneer showing his pointed, yellow teeth as a wave of nausea overcame Adamira as his putrid breath entered her nostrils. If she'd had any food left in her stomach, it surely would have been lost.

"Stupid human," he growled as Adamira gasped for breath against the pressure being exerted against her windpipe. "Did you think it'd be so easy?" He released her, turning to his men as Adamira coughed and sucked in gasping breaths of precious oxygen, blinking away the black that had begun to cloud her vision.

With a sickening jolt, time seemed to slow down as Adamira realized the man of Rohan had been thrown to his knees in front of the orcs, the events to follow sliding into place as she watched the Uruk leader's brutish hand— the same one that had been crushing the life out of her only a moment ago, she was able to realize with piercing clarity— travel to his hip. In the next moment, time seemed to slow down and then stop completely. Adamira could see the staggering rise and fall of the soldier's chest, the pain visible in the lines of his face— signs of internal injuries. She could practically taste the bloodlust radiating from the orcs and penetrating the air, smell the excitement as they held the soldier in place, feel the youth's pain and…resignation? As everything slid into position for the next act that would haunt her dreams for a long while after, a sick feeling entered Adamira's stomach and heart as she anticipated the orc's next action.

"Filthy Rohirrim," the Uruk leader growled, drawing his scimitar from its crude sheath at his waist. Adamira couldn't stop the strangled cry that escaped her throat as, with a swift movement, the Uruk buried his scimitar to the hilt in the soldier's chest. The warrior's young face twisted in pain, burning its way into Adamira's memory as she watched the light fade from his eyes as his lifeblood flowed down his chest and across the floor. The Uruk removed his weapon from the body of the now-dead Rohirrim, a look of malevolent satisfaction on his face as he took in the horror-struck expression on his remaining captive's face, relishing in the macabre fruits of his grisly deed. His gaze shifted to the orcs who stood behind Adamira, practically shaking in anticipation. "Just keep her alive," he ordered, a sinister smile on his face. What thoughts were occurring to him, Adamira didn't want to know, though she knew she was about to find out. "I'm not finished with her yet."

A cry escaped Adamira's throat as she was thrown roughly to her back on the burnt-out floor, immediately surrounded by a congregation of orcs waiting not so patiently for their turn to participate in the planned entertainment. Four orcs pinned her arms to the ground as an Uruk-hai loomed over her, pulling a dagger from his belt as he straddled her, one knee on each side of her hips. Adamira gasped as the dagger sliced cleanly through the belt at her waist. Fear flooded her veins as she realized what the orcs were planning to do, and she immediately began to struggle against the orcs holding her down. The Uruk sneered, running the side of his dagger down Adamira's face, the smooth, cold metal sending shivers down her spine. "Go on," he growled as Adamira attempted to free her arms from the orcs' grip. "Scream for me. No one will hear you."

As he positioned himself over her, continuing to mock her as he ran the side of the dagger down her face and over the exposed skin of her neck while his free hand traveled toward the waist of her pants, Adamira brought her knee up to the Uruk's groin. With a snarl of pain and surprise, he dropped his dagger and rolled off of her. Adamira scooped up the abandoned blade, rolling to her knees beside the Uruk as the orcs released her arms in surprise. "Go on," she hissed, plunging the dagger through his neck, feeling his blood splash onto her face. "Scream for me." A sharp roar and the orc was dead, hot black blood running in rivulets over Adamira's hands where she still clung to the buried blade. A swarm of orcs surrounded her, dragging her away from the corpse she'd created from their comrade.

Adamira curled into a ball, covering her face as she was thrown to the floor, fists and boots attacking any part of her body she hadn't managed to cover as orc curses rang through the air. As the first blows landed on her body, Adamira found herself remembering Minas Tirith during the spring, recalling the scents of the blossoms that would perfume the air. It was a desperate attempt at ignoring the fists and boots beating against her body so as not to push her into unconsciousness. She didn't want to even begin to think about what the orcs would do when she blacked out. None seemed willing to again attempt what had left their comrade dead, but if she were unconscious and unable to struggle…it might turn into another matter entirely. Instead, she focused on anything but the pain, slipping into a kind of trance where she didn't feel as though she were even in her body. She felt as though she was simply watching the beating take place, rather than experiencing the sharp pain in her back and ribs.

Eventually, the orcs tired of their game, and abandoned Adamira to her thoughts; little did they know thinking was a much more efficient method of torture. Upon returning from her consciousness-saving trance, Adamira found herself rebound. The orcs had learned from their mistakes; Adamira's wrists had been bound behind her, around a pole she was now propped against.

Adamira felt tears tracing her cheeks as she heard the sounds of flesh being torn from bone and knew she was hearing the horrible fate of the young soldier of Rohan whose name she had never even discovered. _It was my fault,_ she thought as she realized the flaw in her escape plan. _How could I be so stupid?_ While Adamira had remembered to mentally document every possible escape route, she had failed to remember to count how many orcs there were in order to ensure the whereabouts of all of them before she attempted her escape. She vowed not to make that same mistake again as she counted all of the orcs feasting on the Rohir warrior's corpse.

Filing the number away, Adamira found her thoughts turning toward what her own gruesome fate would be, the image of a sword piercing her chest replaying in her mind, before drifting into wondering what was happening in Gondor. Did Faramir and the Rangers continue holding Osgiliath? Had Minas Tirith already fallen, and she would never hear about it in this ruined village? None of the questions consoled her, and Adamira again submerged herself in a trance-like state, relishing in the feeling of nothingness.

Upon rising from her reverie, Adamira found her entire body aching in unison. Fever pulsing in her wounded leg threw a rhythmic, slightly red haze over everything. A headache also pressed in from all sides, matching the beat of her pulse. Night remained; leaving Adamira to vow to waste no more time, and the orcs again rested against the walls, save for two orcs who stood guard at the door, one leaning against the frame, his eyes drooping in exhaustion, the other barely visible resting against what was left of the outside wall.

Adamira quickly counted the sleeping orcs, and, finding all present, her thoughts immediately turned to escape, refusing to dwell on the fact that she had already failed in her escape once. She blindly twisted the bindings that tethered her to the pole, trying to find a way to manipulate them to her advantage, finally giving up as the ropes began rubbing her wrists raw. Adamira sighed and closed her eyes, trying to concentrate around the throbbing ache in her body, taking a much-needed mental step back to evaluate her situation.

The orcs were feeling confident that she would be unable to escape again. Snoring was the only sound in the gloom of the house, save for the tempo of Adamira's heart, which only she could hear. These orcs obviously did not know Adamira. Giving up was not an option; she _would_ find a way to escape, or else she would die trying—she hoped it wouldn't come to that. Searching for anything that might inspire an escape, her eyes fell on the abandoned corpse of the Uruk she'd slain. _So much for camaraderie,_ Adamira thought with a shake of her head. In her mind, it was simply more proof that orcs were little more than animals. If a Ranger fell, one could be certain that the man's body would be taken back to the White City, to be honored in burial, not left in the forests to rot. She'd even heard of orcs killing and eating their own—a rumor that she couldn't bear to imagine and made her stomach turn.

Adamira then shifted her focus back to the thought that had turned her attention to the corpse in the first place. Sure enough, just like she'd thought, the dagger she'd used to slay the Uruk lay abandoned next to his corpse, where she'd dropped it while trying to protect herself from the volley of fists and boots that had assailed her immediately following the Uruk's just demise. She sat a moment longer, arranging and rearranging the quickly-forming plan in her head, searching for every possible way for it to go wrong. She came up with some very possible outcomes, all ending in her own personal death and dismemberment, but tried to push these from her mind, focusing only on the success of the plan that would result in her freedom.

Checking the one guard she could see and who could see her if he so chose, who had foolishly fallen asleep, Adamira stretched her leg out toward the dagger, every limb in her body screaming protest, every nerve stretched in apprehension. Silently thanking the Valar for gifting her with flexibility as she twisted her arms and shoulders into a position that wasn't at all comfortable but gave her a few extra inches of length, she managed to nudge the dagger her way. Inch by inch, breath by breath, she scooted the dagger closer and closer until one final, rough nudge sent the dagger sliding across the floor to hit the wall behind her. With a bit of a stretch, her fingers wrapped around the hilt and she slowly and silently pulled the dagger close to her. As noiselessly as possible, she began sawing at the ropes around her wrists, wincing as the blade pricked the raw skin under the ropes. She then reached for her ankles, her heart jumping at the thought of freedom should this work. Once she was free, she rose unsteadily to her feet, leaning against the pole as her wounded leg almost gave out beneath her, the red haze strengthening in cadence before fading again into a barely-noticeable pulsing. She crept slowly from shadow to shadow around the perimeter of the gutted house, dagger in hand, skirting any slumbering orcs she came upon. She was preparing the next part of her plan when a loud thud near her feet froze her in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat.

A sheath of one of the orcs' scimitars lay near her feet where she'd kicked it. Adamira looked up as the guard awakened. Panicked, she threw her dagger before he could raise an alarm. The orc slumped to the ground in silence, the dagger buried in his throat. Adamira reached the carcass of the now-dead guard, pulling the dagger from his throat and burying it in the back of the Uruk-hai who stood waiting outside the door. Unfortunately, a shriek erupted from his throat as his lifeblood coated Adamira's hands, hot and inky black as she pulled out the dagger and again sheathed it in his throat. Pulling her blade from this second carcass, Adamira hurried from the building as she again heard the sounds of an entire band of orcs rising to consciousness. _Stealth just hasn't been on my side lately_, she thought as she slid the dagger into her boot.

Her way free, Adamira hobbled over to where Voronwe waited, a gag around his nose and mouth, before finding the ground rising to meet her as her leg gave out, refusing to bear anymore weight. Using the stirrup of Voronwe's saddle to pull herself up, Adamira managed to stand, leaning on Voronwe for support. Pulling the gag off, she struggled to mount the stallion. She finally managed to pull herself onto the chestnut as guttural cries issued from the doorway of the building. Somehow, Adamira didn't think the orcs would be so 'merciful' if they caught her trying to escape a second time. Frantic, she kneed Voronwe into a gallop, riding as fast as possible into the blue-pink of the nearing dawn. She knew the orcs would follow her, furious and unwilling to miss out on a meal, but she was adamant about refusing to serve as said meal.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chap. 6**

After over an hour of straight galloping, Adamira slowed Voronwe to a brisk trot. She'd left the village far behind in the dust of Voronwe's hoofs, and the stallion's coat was slathered in sweat; he deserved a slower pace for awhile. The jostling motion of galloping caused her leg to hurt worse as well, and certainly did nothing to help the bruises she could feel forming up her back, nor what she could feel were several bruised ribs at best, broken at worst. Of course, she would have to speed back up after a while. Her brother and the other Rangers needed her, and she was behind schedule. But, for just a little while, a slower, though still brisk, trot would be most welcome.

Aragorn, Eomer, Legolas, and Gimli spurred their horses over the plains of Rohan, the latter two riding double. All swelled with the satisfaction of a successful mission: the Rohirrim had returned to their villages and homes safely. Turning their horses toward Edoras, the two men, Elf, and Dwarf wished to do the same.

Adamira stopped at a river rushing and surging its way across the Folde toward a nearby forest and let Voronwe drink as she practically fell from the saddle, gulping down the clear water as though there would be no tomorrow. She was exhausted, hungry, and sore, and could feel the fever building in the gash on her leg. Voronwe fared no better, and Adamira looked at the cuts he'd collected over his hindquarters and chest with distaste, wishing, not for the first time, that she had not left her stock of herbs at Osgiliath. She massaged her aching muscles, puzzling over her current situation, as she watched Voronwe wade chest-high in the rapids, completely unafraid of the surging water. She'd lost so much time in that ransacked village; Edoras was still a few hours ride, and the sun was at its peak in the sky, beating down on her. The temperature was still the coolness of early spring, but, coupled with her soreness, the sun made her head ache, pulsing against her ears in time with her heart.

Sitting back on her heels, Adamira pulled the dagger she'd used to escape the orcs from her boot. It was a crude blade, she thought. The steel of the poorly balanced blade was dulled by the dried blood on it; its handle was fashioned from bone. What kind of bone, Adamira didn't want to know. She washed the dagger off in the river before drying it on her clothes. Yes, it was crude, but it had served its purpose during her escape. She slipped it back in her boot and reclined in the grass as she listened to Voronwe continue to splash in the river.

Hearing what sounded like thunder, yet not seeing a single cloud in the sky, Adamira sat up and turned to look behind her, startled at what she saw. A dark mass moved closer and closer across the grasslands, on course to overtake her within a few minutes. She shielded her eyes against the midday sun and saw that the mass was made up of orcs. They had succeeded in following her, and were gaining! Adamira waded over to Voronwe, thankful for the coolness of the water, and clamored back up into the saddle, spurring Voronwe on across the river as soon as he lifted his head. He continued across, speeding into a canter and then a gallop as Adamira pressed her knees into his sides as soon as he'd reached the other side.

After half an hour of intense galloping, Adamira looked behind her, her eyes darting back and forth over the wide plains. The orcs were no longer in sight. Had she sped ahead of them that easily? An outcropping of large rocks lay ahead, adjacent to the woods, similar to the one she'd camped at, what seemed like ages ago. She'd stop there for a moment, to get her bearings, before continuing on. The sun beating down on her had quickly dried her clothes, snatching away the relaxing coolness and worsening her headache. The shade would be nice, even if it was only for an instant.

The orcs ran quickly through the forest, parallel to their escaped prisoner. She couldn't see them, and when the time was right, they'd surprise her. They weren't losing a meal so easily. The leader peeked through the trees where he could see the young female on her horse. They were slowing down. He looked ahead; rocks were directly before him, cutting into the forest from the open plains.

Golitz signaled to stop. He turned and quickly explained his plan. Half of the group began to go towards the rocks, while the other half began to run toward the open plains. He himself went with the group towards the rocks. However, while that group began to go around the rocks to the other side, he began to scale the rocks, climbing higher and higher with each step.

Golitz reached the top and looked down. The girl was stopped directly underneath him, no more than a five foot drop. He looked to either side before launching himself over the side of the rock as the woman looked up...

Adamira stopped beside the rock and looked behind her, again making sure there were no orcs within sight. She let out a sigh of relief at the sight of the clear plains. Suddenly, Voronwe began to prance and whinny, his nostrils flaring. He smelled something—something that made him restless.

"What is it, Voronwe?" Adamira said. She made soothing noises in attempt to calm the restless horse, patting him on his shoulder.

Suddenly, she froze, her senses on high alert. She thought she heard something, though she couldn't be sure with Voronwe carrying on like he was. She turned in the saddle and looked around. All that was there were the rocks, and Adamira admonished herself for being startled by what was most likely a scampering squirrel. However, she froze when she realized that Voronwe hadn't gotten skittish until they'd reached the outcropping. Her view traveled up the rocks, searching for anything that could have startled her stallion, praying to the Valar for it to merely be a sqirrel. She'd rather feel foolish for being frightened by a squirrel than be threatened by something much more vicious. She reached the top of the rock and met a pair of yellow eyes and her own grey eyes widened. An uruk-hai! She made to push Voronwe on, her fight-or-flight instincts taking hold, but it was too late. Voronwe reared as the orc leapt over the side of the rock to land on Voronwe's back, along with Adamira.

Legolas reined in his horse, the large grey snorting in disapproval at his abrupt command. It took a moment for the others to stop as well, as his stop had been unexpected and they'd been in a full gallop. He craned his Elven ears to be sure he'd heard what he thought he'd heard. Aragorn circled his horse up beside his friend, waiting patiently for the Elf to speak.

"Do you hear that?" Legolas asked as the sounds came again.

"What? What do you hear?" returned Aragorn, craning his own ears in search of some slight sound besides his own breath and heartbeat.

"A horse," Legolas answered simply, his eyes and ears sharp as he studied the plains.

"This is the realm of the Horse-lords, Legolas. It is not uncommon to hear a horse," Aragorn replied, teasing in order to hide his confusion.

"It is here," answered Eomer. "Horses have not grazed these particular lands for some time. Too many have been stolen by orcs and thieves. We moved the last of the herds across the river months ago." Aragorn craned his ears to hear the horse Legolas spoke of. Sure enough, he could faintly hear the trumpeting of a stallion in the distance. It seemed to come from the other side of a ridge about a hundred yards ahead.

"You hear it, too?" Legolas inquired.

"Yes, I hear it. Just over that ridge."

"Should we go see what it is?" Gimli asked.

"No horses but ours should be in this area of the Mark," Eomer said, picking up traces of the horse his friends were hearing. "Whatever horse that is, it is not one of Rohan's. I think it would be wise for us to go see what it is." Aragorn nodded his agreement. With those last words, the group spurred on their steeds, Legolas leading the way, as he could hear better than the rest what direction they needed to go.

Adamira struggled with the orc, both of them falling from the horse's back. Thanfully, Adamira was turned so that her fall was cushioned by the uruk-hai under her. The orc let out a guttural cry as he rolled over, pinning Adamira to the ground. Adamira heard the cries of the rest of the orcs that had been at the raided town as they ran toward the struggle. She gathered her feet up under her and kicked the orc off of her. She was quickly on her feet, racing to Voronwe, who was beginning to enter battle mode, rearing and whinnying at the sight of the oncoming uruk-hai. She pulled Sereglîr from its sheath on her saddle as the orcs surrounded her, the blade singing in apprehension for the blood that would soon stain the blade, which burned like fire in the intense light of the midday sun. Adamira drew a deep breath as she turned to face her opponents, only one thought piercing her mind: _she was severely outnumbered._

The first orcs began to attack; Adamira quickly blocked the first's scimitar as it came towards her throat. She kicked the orc away as the second tried to attack while she dealt with the first. She felt Voronwe rear before bringing his hoofs through an orc's skull, a booming challenge issuing from his throat. More and more orcs pressed towards her, overwhelming her through the sheer unfairness of odds. She stepped backwards and found her back pressed against the rock she had sought for shade, what seemed like ages ago now. Adamira found herself wishing she was still in Henneth Annun with her brother and the other Rangers, perhaps laughing over a joke told by one of the men as they waited for reports of the comings and goings of the creatures of Mordor. She pushed these thoughts from her mind as an orc's sword carved a groove in the rock beside her head. There would be time for wishes and memories later. Right now she had to get away from the rock and out of this predicament. An orc ran towards her and she rammed Sereglîr into the pits of his stomach, ripping the sword out again as the orc fell dead. She pulled the scimitar from its dead hands, preparing to wield it along with her own. It was a meager attempt to better the odds. She kept her grandfather's lessons in mind as she ran one sword apiece across two orc throats.

_Keep your moves simple. Fancy whirls won't stop them from killing you._ She ducked beneath an orc's sword, bringing her own across his stomach. An orc's sword suddenly met her own with enough force to put her on the ground.

_Stay out of corners._ She crossed sword and scimitar in front of her just in time to keep her head from being cloven in two. She rolled away as his sword came for a second strike, leaping to her feet in the same fluid moment.

_Use your environment. Keep them guessing._ She saw another orc coming from the side. She stepped back as he ran toward her, turning and thrusting her collected scimitar through his back as his momentum carried him past her. Unfortunately, it also put her in reach of another orc. Arms wrapped around her torso, lifting her up from the ground and pinning her own arms to her sides. Three orcs came towards her, nasty grins on their faces foretelling she would not simply receive a sword through the gut.

A fist connected with her jaw. Stars danced before her eyes and she tasted blood in her mouth. Another fist connected with her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs. She would have bent over double had the unknown orc not been holding her. Instead, all she could do was gasp, which seemed to spur the orcs on. Fists continued to rain down on her, each one like a battering ram. Adamira bent her leg up to her pinned arm, dropping the orc scimitar and pulling her dagger from her boot. This she thrust behind her into the orc holding her. Where she did not know, nor did she care as he released her, howling in pain.

She brought her remaining sword up against the three attackers. A pain-filled cry was ripped from her throat as an Uruk maneuvered around her sword and cut into her side. One hand covered the wound, and she felt blood coat her fingers. She looked up at the one orc with blood on his sword. Not the black blood of orcs which coated her own sword, the red blood that was her own. Her fury broke through all reasoning and she launched herself on the orc. In a few moments, three orcs lay dead on the ground with their fellow scum. She slit the throat of the orc she'd stabbed with her dagger. Her dagger had sheathed in his leg, immobilizing him. She pulled out the blade, wiped it on the orc's dead body, and returned it to her boot.

Adamira brushed the hair from her face as another Uruk chose to be her next challenger. She felt herself tiring, and knew she couldn't last much longer. Her defenses were weakening, her technique becoming sloppy and desperate as a persistent red haze blurred her vision—already marred by the mixture of blood, sweat, and dirt stinging them—in time with the hammering of her heart. She brought Sereglîr up as the Uruk's scimitar crashed toward her, the movement seeming to be in slow motion. The Uruk and Adamira seemed to be moving in a horrific, warped kind of synchronization, a lethal dance in which only one would finish this grisly routine set to the symphony of clashing blades and echoing war cries. Adamira swung for the creature's chest as he swung for hers. Her sword met flesh, as did his. The Uruk dropped as Adamira gripped her left shoulder where the scimitar had pierced the skin. Warm blood flowed over her cold fingers and she looked at them with remote interest, suddenly feeling light as air. She shook herself out of the daze she'd slipped into as a whinny pierced the air.

Her peripheral vision caught Voronwe surrounded by orcs, rearing and screaming a challenge to his enemies. She moved to help her horse when a force barreled into her, ramming her back up against the rock, giving her no time to react as pain coursed its way down her spine, snatching the breath from her lungs. A rough hand pressed against her throat.

The riders crested the ridge and brought their horses to a stop, shock clouding their minds as the war horses they rode pranced from side to side in anticipation as the stench of blood entered their flaring nostrils. Uruk-hai swarmed the rocky area below. The horse that had brought the riders' attention was rearing by the largest rock, his hooves artillery of destruction, his whinny a booming war cry. Legolas surveyed the area, quickly counting. "Around thirty orcs originally, twelve remaining. The horse is saddled, his rider must be around somewhere," he reported.

"Legolas, what is that?" Aragorn asked, pointing to the rock.

Legolas obligingly looked towards where Aragorn pointed. A group of orcs stood in a huddled semi-circle by the rocks, completely oblivious to their surroundings. "They've surrounded the rider!"

Without further need of communication, the group rode toward the orcs, drawing swords in anticipation for the battle to come. Legolas pulled out his bow and commenced firing on the orcs with his customary deadly accuracy.

Golitz pressed his hands against Adamira's throat, cutting off her windpipe. She struggled for air, dropping her sword and grabbing the Uruk's hands while he stared at her, his yellow eyes glinting wickedly. Black spots began to blot out her vision, occasionally interrupted by the same red haze that continued to plague her. Suddenly, there were a series of thudding sounds, and three orcs, who had been watching their leader crush the life from her, fell dead. Adamira heard the sound of galloping horses and looked beyond the leader to see three stallions galloping toward her at top speed. The orc holding her pressed his hands harder against her neck. Suddenly, a dappled-grey stallion rode past, and his rider swiped his sword across the orc's back as three arrows simultaneously pierced his neck. His grip on Adamira's throat loosened as a rose of blood blossomed across his chest. Adamira took the opportunity to reach down and grab her discarded sword, thrusting it through the orc's ribcage, a sick satisfaction blanketing her in warmth as his hot, sticky black blood further dimmed the already-dull silver of her blade.

Her energy and adrenaline spent, Adamira pulled her sword from the orc's chest, gulping the blessed air into her lungs. The black spots continued to blot her vision; her body seemed to feel nothing but pain. Adamira could hear voices, but it seemed as though she was hearing them through a stone wall, her ears ringing as blood pulsed in them. _Is this what it is like to die?_ She found herself thinking. A feeling of regret came over her as she came upon the distinct realization that, with her death, she was failing her brother in this last mission he had given her. _Please forgive me, Faramir. _It faintly came to mind that she should be afraid as shadows came to stand before her. She took a step forward, and a wave of dizziness struck her as weight shifted onto her damaged leg. Her knees buckled, and she felt unknown arms catch her at her waist before everything went black, and she knew no more as she sank into the blissful vortex of unconsciousness.

Eomer dismounted Firefoot quickly, turning to face the brave rider who'd faced so many orcs alone. His mouth fell open in surprise as he took in the blood-soaked figure's slight form and long hair. A woman? She was small, perhaps even smaller than Eowyn, he noted, and dressed as a man, clutching her sword, dulled by the black blood covering it, loosely in her left hand. Her clothes were tattered and soaked in blood, not all of it the black blood of orcs, he noticed. She was breathing heavily, and seemed dazed as she stared at him.

"Are you alright?" he asked tentatively, stepping forward slowly and cautiously, so as not to startle her. The rider took a step toward him, before her will gave out and she collapsed, dropping her sword to the grass. Eomer lunged forward and caught her at her waist, lowering her to the ground slowly and carefully, mindful of the injuries she'd sustained. Legolas came over and picked up her discarded sword so that Eomer could safely lay the rider down when another booming whinny filled the air, followed by the thundering of hooves.

Eomer dived out of the way just in time as the woman's stallion charged at him. He scrambled to his feet as the horse reared, brandishing his hooves like weapons. Eomer worried that the fallen rider was going to get kicked or stepped on, but at the same time had to admire this stallion's dedication to its rider as it snorted at the slightest movements any of the assembled made to approach, baring his teeth. Eomer found that this was no empty threat as he took a step, the horse's teeth sinking into his shoulder. He jerked back, gripping his shoulder in pain as the stallion reared again.

From the corner of his eye, Eomer noticed Aragorn rush in, grabbing the horse's reins as it came down. He gripped the reins tightly, preventing the steed from rearing again, as he muttered soothingly in Elvish. The destrier didn't try to rear again, though it stayed alert, ready to attack at a moment's notice as Aragorn stroked its face. It was a fine horse, Eomer noted, showing signs of superior breeding as an instrument of war. Blood poured over its coat from several grievous wounds, mingling with the sweat lathered over it as muscles twitched just below the skin. At least sixteen hands tall, intelligent but wary eyes peered at him as he slowly circled the stallion to reach its rider.

Eomer knelt down in the grass beside her still form, worried for a moment that she was already dead. He then noticed the slight rise and fall of her chest, however shallow and uneven it was, and sighed in relief. She lived, for now. He paused, uncertain of what to do; he was no Healer, and knew very little about treating wounds. He could see, however, that the bloodstains on her clothes primarily pooled on her right side and left shoulder, indicating her worst injuries. She was battered and bruise, angry red marks that he knew would darken into a deep purple tracing over the exposed skin of her neck and face.

A growl escaped Eomer's throat at the sight of the particular shape of a large red mark on the fallen rider's neck. It was in the shape of a hand! A protective instinct awoke in Eomer as he studied this mark. No one, man or orc, should treat a woman this way. The strong urge to kill any orc that dared to step in his path overcame Eomer, but he was luckily saved from his rage as he heard Aragorn's approaching footsteps. Aragorn was a Healer; he would know how to take care of this rider.

Aragorn stroked the charger between the eyes, waiting patiently for the horse to calm down, and kept a tight hold of its reins in case it decided to once again charge Eomer as he knelt by the unconscious woman. Finally, the horse allowed himself to be led over to where the other horses chomped contentedly at the grass. Aragorn patted the horse before going to join Eomer at the side of the fallen rider while Legolas and Gimli prepared the orc carcasses for burning.

"How is he?" Aragorn asked as he knelt beside Eomer.

"'He' is a 'she,'" Eomer informed. "She's alive, but only just." His voice was solemn as he motioned toward the dark red stains on the woman's stomach and shoulder. "She's lost a lot of blood."

Aragorn's mouth was open to reply, his eyes already appraising the woman's injuries, but he closed it abruptly. He noticed a glimpse of white amid the blood and dirt on her clothes, and began wiping the grime from the woman's attire, not satisfied until he saw the branches of a white tree rimmed by stars through the filth of battle. "She wears the White Tree of Gondor. We have to get her to Edoras."

"Edoras?" Eomer repeated in disbelief. "Can you not stop the bleeding here?"

"Not unless you hid some bandages and water in your armor, Eomer," Aragorn returned as he stood. "Which I find unlikely. I didn't realize this would turn into a rescue mission." He gestured to the woman's still form. "This is no ordinary woman, and we are only an hour's ride from Edoras. She'll make it."

Eomer looked down at the woman's pale face, unable to find the same confidence. He turned his attention back to Aragorn as he missed what the Ranger said. "What?"

"I said, 'Do you want to carry her, or will I?'" Aragorn repeated, reading the worry in his friend's face.

"I'll do it," Eomer offered. He remembered how light the woman had been when he'd caught her after she'd collapsed. "She's not heavy. Firefoot won't mind carrying her."

"Then come on," Aragorn said." We need to hurry."

Eomer obligingly scooped the woman from the ground, walking over to Firefoot. Aragorn kept pace beside him, taking the woman in his arms while Eomer mounted. Eomer stared warily at the rider's stallion as it looked up from grazing and snorted as Eomer took its rider into his arms, setting her in a semi-comfortable position in front of him. As soon as everyone else was ready to go, he pushed Firefoot into a gallop, eager to return to Edoras.


	7. Chapter 7

******A/N:** Ugh! This should not have taken this long to get up! I'm sorry, everyone! All I can say is that life got in the way! Next week, I'll officially be starting my Senior year of High School! :) Feels like just yesterday I was taking naps, eating peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, and getting my finger stuck in a Parmesean cheese can (long story!)! Well, I hope you enjoy, and I promise the next one will be up a lot quicker!

Lauren

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**Chapter 7**

Legolas, Aragorn, and Eomer reined their horses to a halt as they reached the steps of Meduseld, their chargers prancing from side to side, whinnying and snorting at the flurry of activity around them. Men ran out from all directions before being sent back the way they'd come at the order of their young Marshal. Eomer dismounted Firefoot and thrust the reins into a random stable boy's hands before reaching up and pulling the unconscious woman from the saddle, sending someone running to find his sister. Aragorn's footsteps echoed behind him as he carried the girl up the stone stairs and into Meduseld, nodding at Gamling as he opened the heavy doors.

Cutting across the main hall and through an open archway, expertly weaving his way through the labyrinth of halls ahead, Eomer led the way to the closest empty bedroom. The door he was looking for stood slightly ajar just ahead. He pushed it fully open with his shoulder and strode over to the bed in the center of the room, depositing the girl softly on the pillows. Aragorn stood on the other side of the bed, looking over the girl with a keen eye. The woman's chest rose shallow and uneven. Purple bruises and streaks of black orc blood decorated her face and descended across her jaw and down her neck, before disappearing beneath her muddy, blood-stained clothes.

Eomer turned at the creak of the door as his sister came up beside him, carrying a basin of water in which rags floated like dingy, brown lilypads; he wondered, only for a moment, if perhaps a large, green frog planned to leap from the basin and onto the bed as Eowyn set the bowl on the nighttable that stood nearby, her mouth falling open in wonder at the sight of the blood-soaked form before her. She looked at Aragorn; he nodded. This was obviously some kind of sign, as Éowyn began to unclasp the mud-and-blood-covered leather vest which formed the outer layer of the Gondorian's clothing. She glanced at Eomer sideways, and Eomer took this as a sign to leave. He departed quickly, closing the door softly behind him, before his feet began to lead him to the stables.

* * *

"Retreat!" Faramir called to his men, searching for his own horse through the fray. Men and orcs were everywhere, the men beginning to surge toward their horses as the orcs pressed forward with menacing roars. The men began to gallop as quickly as they could toward the safe haven of the White City, desperate to escape the orcs swarming Osgiliath. Fell beasts swooped everywhere from overhead, lifting men and horses into the air and dropping them. Faramir attempted to close his ears to the sound of his less fortunate comrades as he spurred his horse on. _Why did so much have to be sacrificed in war?_

At a cry from one of his men, Faramir looked up from where he was ducked down against his horse to see a Rider in white riding toward him and his men. The rider lifted a staff and bright rays of light issued from it, the Fell beasts flying off as their riders shirked from the light with hair-raising shrieks. Faramir knew who the Rider was now: Mithrandir had returned to Minas Tirith. Faramir knew from reports that the wizard had been in Rohan…and that meant…Adamira! Faramir spurred his horse faster, eager to greet the wizard and learn what news he had of Rohan.

* * *

Éowyn deftly unclasped the vest, watching out of the corner of her eye as Aragorn removed the woman's boots and untied a makeshift bandage before rolling up the woman's pant leg to find a nasty gash on her calf, fiery red and inflamed. Eowyn inhaled sharply as she returned her attention to her own task, trying to focus around the questions and worry clouding her thoughts. _Would the woman survive? What was she doing here?_ Finally finished with the numerous clasps binding the vest to the woman's body, Eowyn carefully maneuvered the woman's arms through the holes, almost wishing she had not removed the vest, and so saved herself from the grievous sight awaiting her. Blood stained the long-sleeved green shirt beneath the black leather vest, turning the fabric a mottled brown; the stains continued to grow, which Eowyn saw as both a blessing and a curse. As long as the woman's wounds still bled, Eowyn knew her heart continued to beat. But if the woman lost too much blood, then she would still die no matter what Eowyn and Aragorn did to help. After taking a few steady breaths to regain her composure, Éowyn looked over to Aragorn, who seemed unfazed by the vast amount of blood. He moved to the hem of the shirt, raising it and an underlying tunic just enough to reveal the source of the blood while leaving the woman's modesty.

Éowyn began washing away the blood, both dried and newly flowing, covering the woman's stomach. A large gash cut across her abdomen, reaching from her side to just in-between her ribs, ending just above her navel. Aragorn dug through his supplies until he found a needle and thread. He threaded the needle quickly, Éowyn watching warily as he sterilized it in a candle he had lit specifically for this purpose. She expected him to begin sewing the gash together immediately, but instead he seemed to study it first. _He needs to hurry,_ Eowyn thought. _Before this rider loses anymore blood._

"This woman is lucky," Aragorn finally said, beginning to sew the gash together. "This gash is deep, but it didn't damage any of her internal organs."

Eowyn sighed in relief. Aragorn had only been making sure there was nothing else to do before he sewed the gash together; she needed to calm down. She steeled herself as Aragorn sewed the skin on either side of the gash together, expecting the woman to awaken, screaming in pain. But unconsciousness kept the rider tightly wrapped in his arms and she only stirred slightly, her eyelids fluttering, before she again lost consciousness. They worked swiftly and silently, Eowyn doing as instructed as Aragorn worked to staunch the various wounds the woman before him had collected doing Eowyn-didn't-want-to-know. Eowyn had to remove the woman's long-sleeved green shirt to reveal a thinner, sleeveless tunic and a bandage around her upper arm. Aragorn immediately went to work on his target: a deep gash in the woman's left shoulder that had yet to stop bleeding. Eowyn quickly applied pressure to the wound as Aragorn, even swifter, began sewing it closed. A soft, barely audible moan escaped the woman's throat as Eowyn pressed on the gash in her shoulder, and she shifted slightly in her sleep. Eowyn's hand moved instinctively to the woman's forehead, finding slight warmth to her touch.

"She's feverish," Eowyn said, speaking for the first time since arriving in the bedroom-turned-operating-room.

"Yes," Aragorn replied, moving to survey the cut on the woman's leg. "This injury is older than those—" he motioned toward the woman's upper body and the gashes in her stomach and shoulder, "—and it hasn't been treated. I'm beginning to think it was not her first encounter with the Uruks in that valley." He then moved to the bandage around the girl's arm, removing the bandage to find a partially-healed, cleanly-sewn cut. "A Healer's hands sewed this," Aragorn noted. "It's older than the others." Finding nothing needing attention, he wrapped the arm in a clean bandage.

* * *

Eomer entered the stables, the musty smell of horses entering his nostrils, welcoming him home. He knew these sights. These smells. These horses. This all was as familiar and comfortable as his own skin…_Except that,_ he corrected himself, freezing at the appalling spectacle before him. The Gondorian's wounded stallion stood reared on its back legs, still saddled, tossing its head and snorting in rage. Two stable hands held the horse's reins, trying to keep out of range of the sharp hooves stabbing the air directly above them. The other horses stirred restlessly as the stallion's thundering voice echoed throughout the building. An idea formulating in his mind, Eomer marched hastily over to Firefoot's stall and took some oats from his trough, patting the horse's nose as it nickered and nuzzled his shoulder. He then walked over to the new horse and offered the oats, making soothing sounds as the horse continued its booming protests, dodging rapidly as it attempted to strike him with its hooves.

Realizing that this human was resolute in his actions, the stallion gradually came down, eying Eomer with wide, intelligent eyes of warm brown as he sniffed at his hands. The stallion defiantly tossed his head before consuming the oats, his eyes remaining trained on Eomer. Eomer patted the horse's side after his hand was empty, noting with distress the deep gashes in its coat, before taking the reins from the awestruck stable boys. They backed warily away from the proud, wounded stallion that had seemed such a monster a moment ago, eager to be anywhere else should it desire to rear again. Eomer led the stallion to an empty stall next to Firefoot's that had obviously been prepared for the horse, fresh hay already lining the stall, food and water already in the troughs. He began removing the packs from the horse's saddle, laying aside the bow, quiver, and sheath that were strapped to the saddle, but turned as he heard chuckling behind him.

"Fifteen years!" It was Elan, head of the King's stables, shaking his head in wonder. "Fifteen years I have been head of these stables, and longer than that have I worked in them, yet I have only ever seen a handful of horses such as this. Two minutes I leave those boys alone, and they can't handle him!" The man strode over to the magnificent charger, still laughing, adding a jar of salve to the bundle of combs, bandages, and a small bag of sugar cubes already in his arms. "What is the nature of this creature? Aldburg? Snowbourne?"

Eomer finished unsaddling the horse, depositing the gear and various tackle on the bar along one wall of the stall in order to be cleaned later, then stepped aside as Elan began running a wet cloth down the horse's side, removing the mix of blood and sweat from the horse's coat. Eomer caught the horse's head as it side-stepped away from Elan, unused to his touch. "Gondorian," he said, sliding a halter over the stallion's nose and tying it to the bar in order to restrain the skittish horse.

"Gondorian, you say?" Elan's head lifted sharply from where he was buttering the horse up with sugar cubes, preparing to attend to the stallion's wounds as it warmed to his presence. He set the bag of sugar cubes on the low wall of the stall and began running his hands over the dark chestnut's back and down his legs, careful around the deep lacerations, before coming to his head, noting the quirks of the elegant equine before him, such as the strong, well muscled withers and hindquarters, massive chest, and long, broad neck proudly held high. He peered into the horse's mouth with an expert eye. "Forgive me, Lord Eomer, but it would seem you are mistaken. This fine horse seems bred in the way of the Rohirrim. Who is the rider?"

"We do not know yet," Éomer replied, interest gracing his features. "She was wounded and has fallen unconscious. Are you certain about the stallion's lineage? Our horses are our lives. We do not merely give them up on a whim."

"_She_?" inquired Elan, a surprised tone to his voice. "Always, Lord Eomer, always you come home with surprises, though this one is much welcome. I am most certain about this horse's lineage. Rarely, Rohan's horses will be sold—you know that. Seldom one as fine as this, though, and never for any small sum." Elan went back to bathing the horse in measured, patient strokes, a mixture of blood, sweat, and water flowing from the horse's sides. "The last one was sold a little over eight years ago, I believe. I could be wrong; it has been awhile since I have gone over the records." Trying to be helpful, Eomer grabbed another cloth and dipped it in a small bucket of water by the bar, wringing it out and helping to clean the charger's cuts, mulling over this new information. Elan knew Rohan's breeding records like other men knew the old songs and stories. If he thought a horse had been sold eight years ago, chances were that it had.

"Regardless of the stallion's lineage, the owner, female or not, is no stranger to horses," Elan continued, running his cloth down the charger's flanks with deft skill gained from a lifetime's experience. "You'd be hard-pressed to find a better cared for mount, even in many of Rohan's stables. No bugs, clumps of hair, or sores. Magnificent form and muscle structure. Ridden hard, though, and obviously wounded in some fierce attack. What happened?"

A picture of the orcs swarming across that small valley flashed through Eomer's mind. "The rider was attacked by a band of orcs," he revealed as Elan dropped the now-red cloth in the bucket of water, picking up a needle and some thread from his supplies. "There were around thirty of them originally," Eomer continued, putting a soothing hand on the stallion's head as Elan began to stitch the wounds together, causing the horse to start and attempt to shirk away. "By the time we got there, the rider had managed to kill around half of them before being overwhelmed. We took care of the rest and brought her back here."

Eomer watched as Elan swiftly and deftly sewed up the various gashes the stallion had collected during his and his rider's long journey from Gondor. After all of the injuries had been stitched, Elan grabbed a comb, running it down the stallion's sides and removing all of the excess water and filth from the charger's coat. Eomer handed Elan a roll of bandages after the horse's coat had been completely cleaned, and Elan proceeded to apply a salve over the cuts before beginning to wrap the bandages around the horse's flanks until no stitch could be seen. Then, he untied the halter from the bar, allowing the horse to reach the trough of food and water.

Elan turned to the bar, and went to pick up the saddle when the stallion began tugging at a rolled up blanket tied to it. Eomer smiled as Elan let out another chuckle. "Knows what he want, doesn't he?" Elan said. "Rather opinionated." Eomer took the green blanket from the saddle and draped it over the horse's back. Contented, the stallion dipped his head in the water trough while Elan took a moment to retrieve the saddle from the bar. He left Eomer to gather up the rider's belongings while he carried all of the tack over to a pile of gear that needed cleaned. "I'll go over the records again, Lord Eomer," said Elan as he took a seat on a stool, an open jar of saddle soap on a small table beside him. "And let you know if I can find anything out about the rider."

Eomer nodded, shouldering the packs and the weapons before leaving the stables, allowing Elan to return to his work.

* * *

Once inside the gates of Minas Tirith, Faramir pushed his horse through the crowd to come up even with Gandalf. He was shouting something to Irolas, captain of the Citadel Guard, and paying little attention to any others around him. _Mithrandir has changed,_ Faramir thought as he took in Gandalf's white cloak and the magnificent mearas upon which the wizard rode. _None of us can remain the same when faced with these events of late_. As the White Wizard turned his horse, Faramir got a good look at the rider with Gandalf, all thoughts of Adamira temporarily fleeing his mind as he stared at the small Hobbit. It was one of them!

"Faramir?" asked Gandalf, noticing the Captain staring at Pippin, who was growing nervous under his penetrating gaze, "This is not the first Halfling to have crossed your path?"

"No," answered Faramir slowly. "My men and I came across Frodo and Sam in Ithilien a few days ago." Faramir then remembered Adamira. "Is Adamira with you?" He inquired, scanning the crowd behind the wizard.

"Adamira?" repeated Gandalf, a confused expression on his wise face. "Your sister?"

"I sent her to Edoras a few days ago to ask for reinforcements. She should have arrived before you left," Faramir explained. Comprehension dawned across his face. "She isn't with you."

"We received none from Gondor prior to my departure, and I saw no signs of anyone across the Eastfold. I am sorry, Faramir." Gandalf placed a calming hand on Faramir's shoulder, but the young Captain took no comfort from it.

* * *

Eomer strode toward the bedroom where he'd left Éowyn and Aragorn with the woman, his steps quickened by his eagerness to reveal what Elan had told him. As he drew closer, he heard voices, and his pace quickened even more. He turned the last corner to find Aragorn and Legolas.

"How is she?" Eomer asked immediately as he approached the pair.

"Ill," Aragorn answered with a sigh. Eomer noted the exhaustion on the Dunedain's face. "She's still unconscious."

"Has my uncle been informed?" Eomer asked next.

"I just sent Éowyn."

"Good." Eomer handed Aragorn the bow he'd found in the woman's belongings. "What can you tell me about this?"

Startled, Aragorn took the bow from Eomer, running his hands over every groove. He handed it to Legolas, who also peered keenly at it. "Gondorian," Aragorn informed, watching Legolas pull it back with no difficulty. "Lightweight, sturdy, well taken care of. Made in the ways of the Rangers of Ithilien. Where did you get it?"

"It was with the woman's horse," Eomer replied. He raised the packs he'd retrieved as extra explanation, taking in Aragorn's hassled appearance as he returned the bow. "The Horse Master also informed me that her horse is of Rohirric bloodlines."

"Are you certain?" Aragorn asked, the furrow in his brow deepening.

"Master Elan is rarely wrong."

"A Gondorian woman, riding a Rohirric horse, and possessing a Ranger's bow?" Legolas began. "I wish to know how this all fits together."

"I think we all do," Eomer agreed, returning his attention to his exhausted friend. "Get some rest, Aragorn," he suggested, clapping the Ranger on the shoulder. "We can't know anything until the woman wakes up, so you might as well sleep."

"Someone needs to stay here in case she does wake up," Aragorn said. "She'll be confused and in pain. Someone will need to explain what happened."

"I'll stay," Legolas volunteered. "I do not need sleep as you Humans do."

With no other reason to linger outside their guest's room, Eomer and Aragorn each sought their separate rooms, fatigue crashing over them in waves, while Legolas stationed himself in a chair near the woman's bed. All three had questions they wanted answered, and none were eager for the possible wait for said answers.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! Please review and tell me what you think!

Lauren


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** I am sooo sorry this took so long to get up! It seems life has hit me with one curveball after another all the way from work issues to my computer crashing! D: Thanks to evryone who's reviewed and added this to your alert lists! It really means a lot! So I figured everyone who'd been waiting so patiently deserved one last Christmas present...even though Christmas has technically been over for 11 minutes. :P Enjoy! Please review and let me know what you think!

Lauren

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Chap. 8

…_A blood red haze surrounded Adamira as far as she could see. She felt as though she was on fire, expecting her entire body to be engulfed by flames at any moment, and yet she was freezing cold at the same time, her body shaking and numb to anything but the ice stabbing at her arms and legs. She didn't know where she was, or if she was even alive. Though she could still perfectly and unpleasantly feel the pain pulsing through her body, nothing but the red haze echoed out around her. Perhaps this was the end the Valar had chosen for her as punishment for failing her country and her kingdom: to suffer for all eternity in ice, flame, and pain, never knowing the passage of time, until her soul dissipated into nothingness._

_

* * *

_

His gait weighed down by the heavy thoughts plaguing his mind, Faramir entered the hall leading to the throne room of his father, the Ruling Steward of Gondor. Many lives had been lost in the retreat to the White City, and Faramir had only just managed to break away from the throng of grieving wives and mothers whose sons had not made it back through the gates of Minas Tirith when he got the message that his father wished to see him. His mind still back with the now-grieving citizens of his city, it took him several moments to register that he was not alone in the antechamber of the throne room. The young hobbit who had accompanied Mithrandir to the White City sat on a bench beside the resplendent doors through which Lord Denethor waited. He seemed to be chastising himself, mumbling with a morose expression on his soft face. Faramir had heard that the hobbit was to join the Tower Guard, though he couldn't fathom the small creature's usefulness.

"A generous deed should not be checked with cold council," he advised, drawing closer. The hobbit sprung to his feet, startled at finding an audience to his ramblings. "You're to join the Tower Guard."

"I didn't think they'd find any livery to fit me," answered the hobbit, looking down at the White Tree sprawled across the chest of his uniform.

"It once belonged to a young boy of the city," said Faramir, recognizing the outfit immediately. "A foolish one. Who wasted many hours slaying dragons instead of tending to his studies."

"This was yours?" guessed the hobbit, registering the fondness in this man's voice.

"Yes," answered Faramir, tugging at the vest. It fit the hobbit well. "My father had it made for me."

"Well," Pippin began, "I'm taller than you were then. Though I'm not likely to grow anymore. Except sideways."

Faramir laughed along with the Halfling. "It never fitted me, either. Boromir was always the soldier. He and my father were so alike. Proud, stubborn even. But strong."

"And your sister?" inquired Pippin. He'd heard mention of her when he'd first seen the man, remembering the man's worried tone.

"Adamira? She was like my mother. Gentle, kind. But she was stubborn as well. Headstrong, even hot-tempered when provoked. She never stopped trying, never gave up. She was probably stronger than either my father or my brother, though she never thought so."

"I think you have strength," Pippin replied, reading the grief in Faramir's face and seeking to comfort the Captain. "Of a different kind. One day your father will see that." Faramir gave a half-hearted smile before he and the Halfling entered the throne room.

* * *

Aragorn paced back and forth before the bed in which the Gondorian woman lay, racking his brain to recall every piece of the healing arts he'd ever learned. _What could I have missed_? He asked himself. Overnight, the woman had become inflamed with fever, her entire body hot to the touch even as she shook from chills. She would regain consciousness long enough for a small bit of water or soup to be poured down her throat before she would again succumb to the ravaging of the fever. At a loss for what to do, and unwilling to let the woman die a slow and miserable death, Aragorn had asked Theoden's permission to enlist the help of the king's personal Healer, had summoned her from her home in the city, and was awaiting her appearance.

The Healer finally arrived: a wizened, elderly woman who immediately set her mind to the task ahead with hardly so much as a greeting. Pulling back the covers piled high on the woman's petite frame to guard against the chills wracking her body, the Healer went to work, her hands searching for injury in deft, skilled movements. She lingered for a moment over the sizable gash in the woman's abdomen, now sewn closed and bandaged, before moving on in her hunt. Despite her speed, her administrations were gentle as she poked and prodded, hardly even causing a wrinkle in the woman's clothing where she touched.

At the previously enflamed gash on the woman's calf, the Healer paused again, but once more pressed on in her search. Like Aragorn, she had been suspicious of the area that had already threatened infection, but, again like Aragorn, had found that once the wound had been properly cleaned and dressed, the infection had fled. The Healer finally paused over the woman's left shoulder, the last major wound to be checked. Aragorn had found the wound there, a piercing from an orc scimitar, but had thought nothing of it, stitching and bandaging the wound easily. It had been a clean cut and Aragorn saw no reason for it to become infected. Nevertheless, the Healer removed the shoulder's wrappings, determined to check every wound. After pulling the last layer of cloth from the woman's skin, a swollen, purple-and-blue area revealed itself around the actual wound Aragorn had sewn closed the day before.

"The blood is pooling underneath the skin," the Healer informed, feeling the area with expert hands. An intake of breath and then a soft moan escaped the Gondorian's throat as the Healer continued prodding the wound. "Something is causing her to continue bleeding."

Aragorn touched the swollen skin, finding it red-hot to the touch, more so than the rest of her fever-engulfed figure. "A piece of the blade is stuck in her body," Aragorn realized, understanding now how he could have missed such an injury. With the wound still open, the blood would have concealed the shrapnel from sight, particularly if deeply embedded.

The Healer nodded. "It must be removed before the infection poisons her blood."

Aragorn thought for a moment. This was a delicate situation with many risks involved. "I will need your help," he finally concluded. The Healer simply nodded, having traced the same thought process in her own mind. Aragorn then left the room, returning a few moments later with Eomer in tow. "I need your help, Eomer," Aragorn requested of the young Marshal of the Mark.

Eomer nodded, confused but trusting the Ranger. "What is it?"

Aragorn explained about the blade lodged in the woman of Gondor's shoulder, an apologetic tone in his voice. "We have to remove it. If she moves, there's the possibility of her losing use of her arm. We need you to brace her, just in case."

Eomer nodded, understanding the necessity of what Aragorn was asking him to do. With Aragorn's help, he gently raised the unconscious woman to a sitting position, allowing him to slide behind her on the bed and position himself against the headboard. At Aragorn's instruction, he wrapped one arm around the woman's body, bracing her shoulder against his chest. He could feel the intense fever attacking the woman even through her shirt and his, hoping that what Aragorn had planned would indeed help the woman heal, and not only sicken her more.

* * *

_Fluttering on the edge of consciousness, Adamira felt an arm wrap around her, holding her down. Her survival instincts immediately commanded her to struggle, fighting against the blackness that threatened to pull her back down into its embrace._

_

* * *

_

Eomer couldn't help his surprise as the girl in his arms began to struggle in his grip, twisting her body in an attempt to loosen his hold on her. It didn't take much to subdue the weakened young woman, but Eomer worried she would hurt herself. "Stop! We're trying to help you!" he stated, hoping the writhing woman could hear him.

* * *

_A voice sounded in Adamira's ear, telling her to stop fighting. The voice claimed that it was trying to help her, but Adamira didn't recognize its cadence, unable to discern if the voice belonged to a friend or a foe that was simply trying to deceive her into submission. Refusing to take the chance, Adamira increased her struggle, but her captor simply tightened his grip. The pain in her arm and shoulder, no, her entire torso, was excruciating as she struggled for freedom, and she felt as though it were aflame. Adamira fought a moment longer before finally giving in. She was exhausted even by that small burst of effort, and had no chance against her captor's strong hold._

_

* * *

_

Eomer nodded to Aragorn as the girl finally stilled in his arms, her breathing uneven and labored from her brief but powerful attempt to escape him_. Had she been at her full strength, rather than ill and half-unconscious_, Eomer thought, _she may have proved to be a worthy challenge_. Aragorn gave a curt nod and began to feel around the wound in search of the most likely place where the blade was wedged. A pained moan passed between the woman's lips at his prodding as she shifted her head to rest against Eomer's shoulder, her breath hot on his neck.

After exchanging a swift glance with Eomer, ensuring that the young Marshal was ready, Aragorn picked up a thin knife and began cutting through the thread he'd used to bind the wound the day before, blood flowing freely from the wound as the pressure inside was relieved. Eomer's free hand clapped over the woman's mouth, cutting off the shrill scream that had begun to erupt from her throat as the intense pain pulled her into consciousness.

Aragorn watched his friend pale as he was forced to hold the woman as she attempted to writhe in his arms, trying to distance herself from the intense, cutting pain shooting through her shoulder as the pressure was released from her wound. Even in her weakened state, it was with some difficulty that Eomer held her still. It was a good thing the young woman's arms were pinned tightly to her sides, or else Eomer would most likely have walked away from the experience with a black eye as he watched the woman's hands curl into fists. Aragorn and the Healer worked quickly, draining the pooled blood from the wound as the woman's muffled screams filled the room. Finally, Aragorn removed a large, blood-coated piece of metal that had once formed the tip of an Uruk blade from the wound, the healer immediately rushing in to slow the blood pouring from the wound and sterilize the gash where the debris had been lodged, destroying any impurities from further sickening the woman.

They were forced to cauterize the wound to ward off further infection, and this proved to be the limit for the young Gondorian. Pulled into full consciousness as the burning hot metal of the sterilized blade touched her skin, her muted shriek faded as the blade traced the wound, filling the room with the stench of burning flesh, and she collapsed against Eomer's chest, no longer writhing, no longer screaming. Eomer got a quick glance of pain-filled, stormy grey eyes before they fell closed, the woman spiraling gratefully into total darkness once again.

* * *

Faramir stood in the shadows of the vast throne room, watching the nervous, young hobbit swear fealty to his father. The hobbit stumbled through the oath, but determinedly finished nonetheless, kissing Denethor's ring in closing. Denethor turned and sat at a food-laden table before looking to Faramir, a silent summons.

"I do not think we should so lightly abandon the outer defenses," Denethor said, looking back to his midday meal. Faramir came to stand before his father, awaiting orders. "Defenses that your brother long held intact."

"What would you have me do?" Faramir inquired.

"I will not yield the river and Pelennor unfought," Denethor answeredfirmly, as though it should be obvious to the Captain before him. "Osgiliath must be retaken."

"My lord, Osgiliath is overrun. We do not have enough men to retake it."

"Much must be risked in war," Denethor replied, an air of finality to his tone. He was set on this, and would not be shaken from it. Faramir recognized this, but was determined to try. Too many widows had been created today. He did not wish to create more.

"I fear we risk too much, Father," he returned. "Adamira…" Faramir was unsure of whether or not Denethor had been informed of his only daughter's disappearance.

"Do not mention your sister to me," Denethor growled, malice seeping into his tone. "Is there a Captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will?

Faramir watched his father eat with a saddened expression. How could his father disregard Adamira's disappearance— and, most likely, death— so easily? He knew the Steward had never felt any particular warmth for his youngest, but she was still his daughter! His own kin! "You wish now that our places had been exchanged. That I had died and Boromir had lived."

"Yes. I wish that," Denethor stated, unable to meet his son's eyes. So _this is the fate of the youngest of the Steward's_ _children?_ Faramir mused sadly. _To fight for our father's approval when he has already made up his mind never to grant it? Adamira realized this long before I did._

"Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead," Faramir finally replied, tears forming in his eyes from the sting of his fther's words and his own realizations. He bowed and turned to leave, pausing at the door with the knowledge that this could be the last time he saw his father. "If I should return, think better of me, Father."

"That will depend on the manner of your return."

* * *

Aragorn left the young rider's room after bandaging her shoulder, astonished to find the Rohir Marshal waiting in the hall.

"I thought you'd already have returned to your room, Lord Eomer," Aragorn stated, not bothering to hide his surprise. "It has been a long day and you look tired."

"Is she—?" Eomer's question trailed off, but he trusted that Aragorn understood.

"It's too soon to tell for sure," Aragorn began with a sigh, realizing the Rohir's concern. "I believe she'll be alright, but I don't know for certain. She's lost a lot of blood from the wounds alone, and if they become infected as her shoulder began to…" Aragorn didn't need to finish. Eomer had already seen enough bloodshed and war to know what could happen if a wound became infected. If the soldier were lucky, they would only lose an arm or a leg. Many were not so lucky, and Eomer had seen how they suffered, dying a slow, agonizing death. "If her fever breaks tonight," Aragorn started, "She will most likely be perfectly fine." Aragorn eyed his friend, worried. "But will you be alright?"

"I will be fine, my friend," Eomer said with a heavy sigh. "I am startled, is all. I have helped restrain many wounded men lost in fever. I can bear to hear them scream, because I know it is necessary. But I have never had to restrain a woman so. It felt wrong to allow her to feel such pain…"Eomer shook his head. "…to force her to bear it while I held her in place!"

"Forgive me, Eomer," Aragorn offered, clasping his worried friend on the shoulder. "I wish I had not had to request your help, but you were simply the first person I came across." He sighed. "Get some sleep, and do not worry yourself too much over it. You helped relieve a pain far more grievous than that which was caused." Eomer nodded and parted ways with the Ranger, still shaken up despite his friend's advice.

* * *

Aragorn rested a hand on the unconscious woman's forehead, grateful to find that the fiery tempest of fever had fled her body, leaving her brow cool to his touch. "Her fever is broken," Aragorn announced, unable to hide the relief in his voice. The young Gondorian slept peacefully now, no longer shaking from chills or burning from fever. After a few moments' discussion, it was decided for someone to stay with the woman in case she should awake and panic, unsure of where she was. King Theoden's Healer, who had volunteered her services in attending to the injured rider and Aragorn had learned was called Henwyn, volunteered first watch, taking a seat at a small table laden with the woman's belongings while the other residents of Meduseld attempted to find something to amuse themselves, though each's mind frequently wandered to the other resident of the golden hall who didn't yet know that she was a resident of the hall, lost as she was in the black abyss of unconsciousness.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review and let me know what you think!

Lauren


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **I decided you guys needed another chapter to ring in the New Year and for being so patient with how long it took to get the last chapter up. College applications are kicking my butt right now, so I'm not going to promise as to when the next chapter will be up. I'm going to do my best to get a chapter in every two weeks or so, but I don't want to promise and then not be able to deliver. Thanks for sticking with me! Review and tell me what you think! :)

Lauren

* * *

**Chap. 9**

Eomer sat beside a large bed in what had once been an empty guest room. Now, however, the room was occupied by the strange woman they had come across on the Eastfold. She had yet to rise from unconsciousness, and so it was silent company he kept as he took his turn watching over the sleeping rider. Aragorn had decided it would be best for someone to be present when the young woman woke up, in order to explain why she was waking in a strange bed in a strange room, far from her home in the White City.

The young Marshal of the Mark looked upon the woman's still form, one hand by her head on the pillow, her face turned toward it, searching for any sign that she was stirring. Her petite form appeared tiny in the large bed not meant for one of her stature, and Eomer found himself wondering what foolish person would send someone so small and vulnerable alone on a journey to Rohan in these dark times of treachery and war. Angry, mottled bruises covered her face, disappearing beneath her shirt, only one indicator of the daunting exploits the woman had been through on her travels to Edoras. Eomer wished she would wake soon; so many questions crowded in his mind, all constantly shifting in rank as to which he felt should be answered first. He turned at the creak of the door; it was only Legolas coming to take his turn at the girl's side.

"She still hasn't woken," Eomer informed as the elf came near. He nodded and laid a hand on her forehead, checking for any sign that her fever had returned, before taking his turn at watching over the young woman, leaving Eomer to return to his men.

* * *

Unable to recall the events of her dreams, though she felt they had been dark, Adamira rose slowly to consciousness, feeling as though she were clawing her way up from underground as she fought to the surface of alertness. Her eyes fluttered open and immediately her body tensed up as unfamiliarity swooped in the moment she could feel cloth touching her skin. She had no clue where she was. She was in a bed in a strange room, unable to recognize anything about her surroundings. Her whole body ached, and she couldn't remember why.

She turned her head and took in her surroundings, attempting to discover anything she could about her environment. The bed she was in was enormous. Adamira would bet anything that she could sprawl out her arms and still have room remaining on either side before she reached the end of the bed. The room contained one window, through which a small sliver of sun shone on her face, though she could see nothing through it, as it was positioned on the same wall as the bed. But it was this last part of the room that worried Adamira the most: a man she didn't know sat between her and the door, dozing in a chair. That did not sit well with Adamira, who preferred her exit to be open and her room free of people she didn't know, especially men. She went to sit up, and every muscle in her abdomen screamed in pain. Gasping, she fell back on the pillows, her eyes and teeth clenched against the fire in her stomach.

Through the pain, Adamira heard the legs of a chair scuffing the floor and the sound of light footsteps approaching her bed, and immediately discerned that the man must have heard her and been pulled from his doze. Unwilling to allow herself to be approached unaware, she opened her eyes and found herself wondering how this watchman had approached her bedside with such light footsteps. Dressed in full armor, the man loomed directly over her bed, making an imposing and intimidating figure that might have frightened Adamira were she not used to being surrounded by men almost full-time. Still, this man was certainly no man of Gondor, looking nothing like the slim and agile Rangers of whom's company she was accustomed to being part. Blonde hair fell to broad shoulders, framing a strong jaw, lightly bearded like her brothers' and many of the men of Gondor. But that was the only similarity Adamira could see and again wondered at this tall bear of a man's ability to move with such light steps.

"Lie still," the man ordered softly, placing a hand on Adamira's forehead. She shirked away from the stranger's touch, batting his hand away. An annoyed expression crossed the young man's face. "You've been hurt." Distrust enveloped Adamira in its icy clutches, and she attempted to sit up again, trying to distance herself from this man she did not know. His voice seemed familiar for some reason, though Adamira couldn't fathom why, as she was most certain she'd never seen him before in her life.

"Who are you?" Adamira managed to ask, clearing her throat as the sound of her own voice, harsh and scratchy from disuse, reached her ears. "Where am I?"

The man seemed to ignore her as he averted his path from her bed and to the door. Adamira's eyes followed him as he went, watching for the slightest sign that she was in danger, though a less-alert part of her mind continued to wonder at his stealthy movements. He opened the heavy wooden door and called out for someone, his voice deep and brassy, echoing with authority. Aragorn, Adamira had thought he said, but she could've been mistaken, as he spoke with an accent she was unfamiliar with. He then turned from the door, though he didn't answer her questions. Adamira then realized she'd spoken in the language of the Rangers, a common habit of hers, and perhaps the man hadn't understood her. She repeated her questions again in the Common Speech, but still received no reply.

Adamira felt her temper flare and took a deep breath to calm herself, but it was cut off by another sharp wave of pain across her stomach. She knew she was hurt, but she couldn't for the life of her remember why. She closed her eyes, waiting for the wave to pass, and opened them to find the man at her side once again. He reached a hand out toward her, and Adamira again flinched away from this stranger. He paused, and pulled back his hand, an expression Adamira recognized as anger on his face.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, leading Adamira to realize that his anger was not directed toward her, but to some situation she was not knowingly privy to. "Do not be afraid. You are safe."

_I think that's for me to decide,_ Adamira thought. "Who are you?" she demanded, glaring at the stranger. She was certain she didn't make a very terrifying picture, unable to even sit up from the evil pain that cut through her abdomen with every move, but hoped maybe this stranger would understand that his refusal to answer her questions did nothing to curb the distrust that refused to allow him to touch her.

"I am Eomer, son of Eomund," the young man said, just as the door opened and another man entered the room. Adamira turned her head to see the new arrival and noticed he had an air of nobility about him. She decided it must have been the way he walked, as his simple appearance was far less than kingly. He reminded her of Boromir, and she found herself relaxing as he approached.

He came over to her bedside and put a hand on her forehead just as the other man, Eomer, had. "No sign of fever," he said with a gentle smile. "You seemed on the edge of death for awhile. You are in the hall of Meduseld, in Edoras, home to Theoden King." He gestured to the man beside him. "Lord Eomer is the King's nephew, and I am Aragorn."

"How long has it been?" Adamira asked, her mind trapped in a fog as she processed this Aragorn's words. She realized she was where she had been sent, but couldn't remember how she'd gotten there.

"We found you on the Eastfold and brought you here two days ago," Aragorn informed, seeming to sense her confusion. "You were attacked by orcs."

Adamira's mind reeled, struggling to find a solid foothold in the information she was being fed but failed to recognize. _Orcs?_ Suddenly, the events of the past several days came flooding back to her in a torrent of images_. The village…the orcs…the pile of burning bodies…the heads hung on the town gate…the soldier._ His face, contorted in pain as he breathed his last, overlaid every other memory of those horrible, and thankfully few, days of captivity.

Aragorn sank to the young woman's side as she turned white as a sheet in a matter of seconds, the angry bruises on her face in stark contrast with her now-pale skin as she stared through him, unseeing. Aragorn noticed she was shaking, from fear or some other emotion, he couldn't tell.

"Are you alright?" Aragorn asked, wanting to call her by name before realizing he didn't yet know it.

The woman jumped at his voice, breaking from the trance she seemed to have fallen into. "When can I see the King?" she asked bluntly.

"What?" exclaimed Eomer, unnerved by how quickly the woman's reaction had changed.

"I need to see the King. It is urgent," Adamira said again, hiding her annoyance at having to repeat herself.

"We will speak to Théoden King about when he can see you," Aragorn replied, standing as he became certain the woman's stability had returned. So far, Adamira liked him more than Eomer, though he didn't seem to understand the meaning of urgent.

"Thank you," Adamira countered. "But you don't seem to understand…"

"Forgive me, my lady," Aragorn cut her off with a tilt of his head. "But you will find that I understand more than you think I do. You have been wounded, and need time to heal. When you are better rested, you will be able to see Théoden King."

Adamira nodded in resignation, her temper flaring again at having to be explained to as if she were a child, before she remembered something else. "What about my horse?"

"Your stallion is in the stables, being very well cared for by the King's stable master."

Adamira started to sigh in relief, but her breath caught in her throat as her stomach twisted again, turning her sigh into a hiss. After the haze that momentarily blurred her mind cleared, Adamira was able to see the concerned look on Aragorn's face.

"And now, my lady, we are going to leave you to rest," Aragorn said, the worried expression never leaving his features.

Obviously, Eomer didn't like this plan. He turned sharply to his companion, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Adamira suppressed a smile as Eomer reluctantly followed Aragorn out. She then snuggled into the pillows and let out a relieved sigh as the pain began to fade slowly. A wave of exhaustion then crashed over her from nowhere, and Adamira found herself drifting off to sleep, grateful for Aragorn's skills of observation.

* * *

"What was that?" Eomer demanded the moment the door had closed behind the pair. "You didn't even try to find out who she is; you didn't ask her anything."

"Need I remind you, Eomer, that woman is not a prisoner to be interrogated. She is wounded, and obviously a messenger." Aragorn replied pointedly. "She's been through what we can only begin to imagine. You saw the way she reacted when I mentioned the orcs. We can't ask her anything if she's unconscious."

"And we can't find out who she is if we don't ask," returned Eomer. "We didn't even learn her name." Aragorn shook his head and began striding quickly up the hall.

"Where are you going?" Eomer called to Aragorn's retreating back.

"To see King Théoden. I told her I'd talk to him." With no further explanation, Aragorn had turned a corner.

Eomer sighed and stared at the door beyond which lay a woman of whom they still didn't know the identity, pondering. She had left him only with more questions he wished to ask and a bad mood to accompany them. The bad mood was not directed at her, however. He found the image of her shrinking away from him replaying in his mind over and over. She had been scared that he would hurt her! _And for good reason,_ he thought as he remembered the situation she'd been in when she'd been rescued. She was hurt and had awakened to unknown surroundings. How could she have known whether or not she had gotten herself entangled in worse circumstances than she'd escaped?

His mood abating, Eomer realized he'd left his cloak in the woman's room. He opened the door slowly and entered. The woman had already fallen back to sleep, and he tried to keep his steps quiet as he grabbed his cloak from his chair before letting his attention focus on the woman for a moment. He had to admit Aragorn was right, though the girl's reaction to the mentioning of the orcs only fueled his desire to question her and find out what had truly happened and why she had been sent. He took the cloak and exited without a sound, leaving the young Gondorian to rest and recover.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks for reading! Review and let me know what you think!

Lauren


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter! Here's the next one for you! Please review and tell me what you think!

Lauren

* * *

**Chap. 10**

_Faramir stood in the gardens near the Houses of Healing, his thoughts heavier even than the armor pressing on his chest and shoulders. Suddenly, his reverie was broken as something solid rammed into his side, knocking him to the ground. Laughter erupted from the form on top of him, and Faramir opened his eyes to find a young woman with his same eyes fixing him to the grass._

"_Pinned again!" Adamira cried, sweeping her braided hair back over her shoulder and looking down at her brother with a mischievous smile that could rival even the greatest gambler in all of Minas Tirith, her eyes glinting with the triumph of catching her brother unaware._

"'_Mira, get off!" Faramir returned, not in the mood for his younger sister's antics. Roughly shoving her off of him, Faramir stood, attempting to dust non-existent dirt from his armor. "I'm beginning to regret ever teaching you to tackle people so! Particularly since I seem to be your favorite target. You're sixteen, now, Adamira. Isn't it about time you grew out of these childish games?"_

"_Now, Faramir," Adamira began, reclining in the grass where she'd been deposited, propped up on her elbows, and casting Faramir a pouting face. "What fun would that be?"_

"_Life is not all about fun, 'Mira," Faramir returned, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the young woman five years younger than he._

_Adamira sighed and rolled her eyes, her joking replaced with annoyance. "You've already spoken to Father, haven't you? What did he say this time?"_

_Faramir sighed. He couldn't hide anything from Adamira. Despite her age, she was one of the most observant people he knew; many times, too observant for her own good, putting her nose and opinions into places she should not. He sat down before his sister on a bench in the shade of a giant oak tree before replying. "He didn't say anything. Once again, He chose to ignore me as though I weren't even there."_

_Adamira laughed, earning herself another glare from her brother. "You worry too much about what he thinks, Faramir," she stated._

"_And you worry far too little," Faramir returned, taking in the trousers and shirt his sister had chosen for her day's attire. "About what __**anyone **__thinks."_

"_If Father doesn't care enough to so much as look at me while I'm here, why should I care enough to worry about whether or not he approves of me?" Adamira lifted up onto one hand in order to pull back some hairs that had dared to escape her braid and fall into her face. "Besides, I'll be gone again as soon as Uncle Imrahil and Grandfather finish their business, so it truly matters little."_

"_What matters little?"_

"_Boromir!" Adamira cried at the sound of her eldest brother's deep, booming voice. She leapt up and ran to greet said brother as he stepped through an archway and into the garden._

"_Well, if it isn't my favorite archer in all of Minas Tirith!" Boromir thundered as he swept his sister into a hug, spinning her around in a circle before returning her to her feet and holding her at arm's length as though inspecting her. "Look at you! Prettier than even the most beautiful rose in all of Gondor!"_

"_That's what you said last time, brother," Adamira replied with a roll of her eyes and a grin._

"_Aye, but nearly a year has passed since then, and many roses have bloomed. I looked at every one on the way here, and—" Boromir acted as though he were once again inspecting his sister "—yes; you are most certainly more lovely than all of them."_

_Adamira laughed and hugged her brother again. "I'm so glad you returned home before I left!" she said. "And without a scratch! I must admit, I'm disappointed as well as grateful."_

"_Come on! Faramir and I both know you only wish to hear stories," Boromir returned, to which Adamira nodded, a wide, excited grin plastered on her face. "Well, our stories will have to wait, because I need you to tell me a story first. What is this I hear about you hitting the bull's eye at one hundred paces?"_

"_Boromir, please tell me you don't hold stock in everything Calder claims," Faramir said from his bench. "You know the arms-master exaggerates more than ever as he ages."_

"_Of course I know that, Faramir," Boromir replied as though offended. "Why do you think I am asking Adamira for myself?" Faramir shrugged and Boromir returned his attention to his youngest sibling. "So? Did you?"_

"_Yes," Adamira replied. "I did. You can even ask Elphir and Amrothos. They were with me." A defensive note had crept into her voice at her last statement, as if she expected her claim to be challenged._

"_Don't worry, little sister! I believe you!"_

"_I don't," came Faramir's voice from where he sat on his bench, arms crossed. "I'm going to have to see this for myself," he finished as Adamira fixed him with a steely glare. Suddenly, her face brightened as she turned back to Boromir._

"_Will you both be here long enough to watch me shoot?" she asked eagerly._

"_We have to leave again tomorrow morning," Boromir returned, and Adamira's face immediately fell. "But," he continued, "Why don't you go and get your bow and meet us down at the archery fields? We can watch you shoot before dinner."_

_Adamira grinned, not even honoring her brother with a reply before she took off running for the entrance that would get her to her room the quickest. Laughing, Boromir moved to sit beside his brother as they watched Adamira run through the garden like a gazelle._

"_Why do we support these dreams of hers, Boromir?" Faramir asked as soon as Adamira was out of earshot._

"_What dreams?"_

"_Please, brother. You know Adamira wants to be a Ranger more than anything."_

"_So?"_

"_So? She's a girl!" Faramir cried. "Orcs continue to move through Ithilien, more and more each month. It is no place for a woman, even one who is as good a shot with a bow as Adamira claims to be. Even if she were allowed to join! Her dream is pointless, Boromir. You know this. I'm not sure we're right to continue encouraging her."_

"_Adamira is still young, Faramir. A child. She'll grow out of these dreams," Boromir replied easily._

"_She's hardly a child anymore," Faramir returned, his voice softening. "She looks more and more like our mother every time I see her."_

"_Yes," Boromir agreed with a smile. "She thought I was jesting a moment ago, but she's most certainly not our freckle-faced, awkward little sister anymore."_

_Faramir sighed. "Girvan has become quite taken with her."_

"_Girvan?" Boromir repeated. "Son of Crevan? Your friend? That Girvan?" Faramir nodded. "Adamira has practically grown up with him! He's like a brother to her, the poor fellow!"_

"_And she's like a sister to him! Or, at least she was until he saw her at the banquet we had for her birthday last year," Faramir replied. "You remember? You told her she looked just like Mother, and then Father left without so much as telling her 'Happy Birthday.'"_

"_Yes, I remember," Boromir returned, seeming to think. "She and Girvan would make a good match. Adamira needs someone who'll not try to restrain her. She—" he trailed off when he caught sight of the incredulous look on Faramir's face. "What? You just said yourself that she's not a child anymore."_

"_Yes, but I did not say that I wished to watch her be married off anytime soon, either!"_

_Boromir stood. "The only thing I wish to see right now," he began, "is my baby sister hitting a bull's eye at a hundred paces…something many of your Rangers cannot accomplish. Are you coming?"_

_Faramir hesitated. "I'm still not sure if we should support her like this. It's so unrealistic…almost like we're lying to her."_

"_We're not lying," Boromir insisted. "When she was learning to ride a horse, we picked her up and put her back in the saddle when she fell off. Now, she wants to be the best archer in all of Gondor, so we go and watch her practice. Tomorrow, if Adamira decides she wants to be a shipbuilder, you can be certain we'll both be out chopping trees for her to use. We're her brothers, Faramir. It's our job to support Adamira, even when her ideas are the most foolish in all of Gondor."_

"_I know," Faramir admitted with a sigh. "I just worry about her. We can't protect her forever."_

"_If she keeps going at this rate, we won't have to," Boromir retorted. "She'll be the best soldier in all of Gondor!" The brothers shared a laugh before Boromir continued. "Now, come on. We've given 'Mira more than enough time to retrieve her bow and you know what will happen if she beats us to the archery fields."_

"_Oh, yes, I know," Faramir returned as he stood. "Perhaps the only thing worse than Adamira sad: Adamira angry!"_

"_She's like a balrog in human form, "Boromir said with a shudder._

"_I pity anyone foolish enough to cross her when her temper flares so," agreed Faramir._

"_Particularly if she has anything nearby to throw," finished Boromir. The brothers shared another laugh as they turned their steps toward the closest exit, hurrying to find their baby sister…_

* * *

Faramir was broken out of his reverie as he watched the cheerless faces lining the street of Minas Tirith, faces watching their sons and husbands leaving the city to, in all probability, never return. He turned at the sound of his name, almost expecting to see his sister fighting through the crowd, struggling to see over the multitude in her way, but instead found Gandalf hurrying to catch up with the knights.

"Faramir!" he called, finally coming up beside the sullen Captain. "Faramir! Your father's will has turned to madness. Do not throw away your life so rashly."

"Both my brother and my sister have been lost to this war," Faramir returned, fixing a hard stare on the White Wizard. "Were their lives thrown away rashly as well?" He looked down at the flowers being thrown into the streets to be trampled under his stallion's hooves. "Where does my allegiance lie if not here?" From a look out of the corner of his eye, Faramir knew Gandalf had stepped out of the way, unable to find a response to the captain's query.

"Your father loves you, Faramir," came Gandalf's call as Faramir pressed his horse on toward the Great Gate. "He will remember it before the end."

As Faramir led his Knights through the gates of Minas Tirith and onto the wide expanse known as Pelennor field, he found his thoughts turning toward his sister, wishing he knew what had become of her.

* * *

Adamira woke to stinging pain and the sense that she wasn't alone in her room. She tried to sit up and gasped at the blinding pain that ripped through her torso like fire.

"You should rest," came a voice Adamira didn't recognize. She ignored the advice as the sound of shoes on a stone floor reached her ears, gingerly pushing herself up to come face-to-face with a young woman perching herself on the edge of Adamira's bed. She was clearly Rohirrim, with her pale hair and eyes, and younger than Adamira, or at least appeared so.

Adamira sat still and waited for the room to stop spinning before allowing any of her concerns to be vocalized. "How badly am I wounded?" This came first, mostly due to the fact that she couldn't think straight through the dizziness that had enveloped her with the effort of sitting up.

"You'll certainly have several scars to add to your collection," the woman began. "On your side, shoulder, and leg primarily. And those bruises will take at least a week to fade; your ribs a month or more to fully heal. But our Healers are just as skilled as any in Gondor. Your wounds will heal cleanly."

"Can I walk?" Adamira inquired. With the slicing pain flooding through her torso, it didn't seem so, but Adamira was accustomed to doing things against which her body warned her.

"Aragorn says you can if you must, but he recommends that you rest and regain your strength—What are you doing?"

Adamira had stopped listening after 'if you must,' and froze in the middle of swinging her legs over one side of the bed, her mind still intent on finding her way to the stables to check on her stallion. Confusion must have shone on Adamira's face, as the young woman immediately explained. "You aren't going anywhere until you've had something to eat. You've been here for two days with no food. When was your last meal?"

Adamira remained silent, not up to the challenge of calculating when her last meal was, though her stomach growled loudly at the thought of being full once more.

"Just stay here and I'll be back with something for you to eat," the young woman requested, emphasizing her instructions by pressing lightly on Adamira's shoulders, apologizing quickly when Adamira hissed at the pain that erupted in her left shoulder and streaked through her arm. Adamira obediently lay down as the young Rohir stood, and rolled her eyes as the young woman insisted on smoothing out the wrinkles Adamira had made in the blankets. She was not a child that she needed to be tucked in!

Adamira politely waited for the woman to leave before letting out a sigh of frustration, which turned into a sharp hiss as pain shot through her ribs, leaving her breathless. She was supposed to be requesting reinforcements for Gondor! Instead, she was sitting in bed, taking orders from a woman who could only barely have left her second decade! The bed was warm, she had to admit, though it seemed to have been built to accommodate someone larger than her.

After a few more moments of solitude, Adamira heard footsteps stop outside her door, and shifted as it opened, expecting the young woman with a tray of food, but was surprised to see the lords Aragorn and Eomer. She gingerly pushed herself upright once again as they entered.

"Good evening, my lords," Adamira greeted them easily, though sitting up had once again made her slightly dizzy.

"Evening, milady," Aragorn returned kindly. "You sound well rested. Lady Eowyn informed us that you were awake, so we came to see how you're feeling."

"I am feeling much better, Lord Aragorn," Adamira said, assuming Eowyn was the young woman looking after her. "Thank you." She decided it was wise to omit that her shoulder and stomach ached from the strain of keeping herself upright, or that every breath she took stabbed her lungs. She knew the feeling of cracked and broken ribs well, and could stand the pain—if not easily or comfortably, then at least abidingly. Adamira turned her gaze as the heavy door opened for a second time. Her mouth started watering as Eowyn entered, carrying a tray of food and followed by a much shorter figure. A child, Adamira guessed, though she couldn't tell for certain. She knew of a few citizens of Gondor who, by some genetic misfortune, never grew past a child's height, and could conjure no reason to suppose such people could not abide in Rohan as well.

"Theoden King has agreed to see you tomorrow," Eomer informed, speaking for the first time. He met Adamira's eyes for a split second before again averting his gaze elsewhere. Adamira noticed that his eyes seemed to travel over her body, to her face, and away again, and that each time there was an angry shadow on his face, so that he almost seemed to glare at her every time he met her eyes.

Disconcerted and wondering what she had done to deserve such glares, Adamira turned her attention to the tray of food Eowyn had placed before her, and focused on what Eomer had said. The king would see her tomorrow. Finally, she'd be able to do what she'd been sent to do and then return to keep Gondor from falling further into ruin. Relief flooded her body like warm water, washing away all of her fear and dread and, she was almost certain, shining clear as day on her face.

Adamira's stomach growled and her mouth watered as Eowyn set the tray of food down before her, interrupting her thoughts. Never before had Adamira had the slightest thought that stew could possibly be her favorite food, but today a meal of stew and bread seemed the best meal in the world. However, all thoughts of eating flew far from Adamira's mind as she got a clear, unobstructed view of the tiny figure that had entered behind Eowyn. "A Halfling!" she cried in surprise. She became acutely aware of several pairs of eyes staring at her.

Aragorn was the first to speak. "How do you know of his kind?" he asked, gesturing to the ginger-haired Hobbit who was staring at Adamira with suspicion clear in his eyes.

"We came upon two hobbits in Ithilien just two days before I left," Adamira answered. "They were far from home and on a mission of great importance. If I remember correctly, their names were Frodo and Sam."

"And they are alright?" Aragorn continued, excitement in his voice. He seemed ready to shake Adamira until she'd revealed all she knew about Frodo and Sam. Adamira was glad he didn't act on that impulse, as she wasn't certain she could tolerate the pain that would've resulted.

"Yes, they seemed fine," Adamira returned. "Though perhaps a little weary. It was no light burden they bore." She watched in amazement as a great weight seemed to lift from Aragorn's shoulders. He obviously had cared for the two Halflings' safety, much like a protective older brother. She felt as though there were something she should remember, but couldn't place her mind on it, instead choosing to partake in the meal laid out before her. She'd just taken her first bite of stew when she remembered what she'd thought of a moment before, scalding her tongue and throat as she swallowed the scorching hot mixture.

"Your name is Aragorn?" she asked, her gaze fixed on the tall, rugged man still standing beside her bed. He nodded. "Son of Arathorn?"

Curiosity evident on his face, Aragorn nodded. "How do you know of me, Lady Ranger? It has been over thirty years since I have traveled near the White City, and you could scarcely have been born then!"

"They spoke of you, Frodo and Sam," Adamira replied. "You traveled with them for a time, yes?" Aragorn nodded again. "They also mentioned an elf and a dwarf, and Boromir of Gondor. A strange company, but one Frodo and Sam spoke proudly of." An incipient smile tugged at Aragorn's features, relief lightening his face.

"I knew Boromir well, and was sad to hear that ill had befallen him," Adamira continued, wary of revealing herself to the people before her. Even though she'd been sent to request aid from these people, she remembered her grandfather's teachings to be wary in unknown company. At the questioning eyes upon her, Adamira reported: "While I was away on a scouting mission, the other Rangers found the Horn of Gondor washed up on the banks of the Anduin, skewered in half."

Aragorn seemed to hesitate before answering, and Adamira steeled herself to hear his words. "Our company was attacked by a band of Saruman's Uruk-hai. Boromir died fighting bravely."

Even though she'd known her brother's fate before Aragorn had spoken, hearing the truth of Boromir's death hit Adamira with the force of a battering ram. It felt as though her lungs had forgotten how to function at the same time as a knife was plunged into her heart and twisted, brutally spilling her lifeblood on the stone floor. Her brother was gone, stolen from her long before his time. How many more people she cared about would be taken from her by the forces of darkness roaming freely across the lands? How many more knives would be stabbed into her chest, creating wounds that would never heal? She didn't feel she could bear it. Too many had been stolen, too much blood spilt. Her heart and hope went out to the two Hobbits, Frodo and Sam, and she silently prayed they would succeed in their quest. This war had to end.

Adamira forced back the tears threatening to fall. "Boromir was strong and honorable. Battle is how he would have wished to die. All of Gondor will mourn his death." Unable to say more, Adamira cast her eyes down to the food in front of her.

"Eowyn has agreed to help you with anything you should need," Aragorn finally said after a long, uncomfortable silence. No one seemed to wish to disturb the young woman before them who had just been informed of a loss that ran deeper than any of them knew. "And we shall take our leave and allow you to eat and regain your strength."

At Aragorn's words, everyone except Eowyn left the room, leaving the two women alone.

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**A/N: **Thanks for reading! Please review!

Lauren


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far and added this story to your Favorites and Story Alerts! You all make my world go 'round! Here's the next chapter! =)

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**Chap. 11**

Adamira picked at her food in silence, famished and yet unable to bring herself to take another bite of the stew before her. She felt Eowyn's eyes on her, but didn't acknowledge the young Rohirrim, choosing instead to submerge herself in the seclusion of her own musings. She found herself wondering: if she had been with Boromir, could she have saved him? Could she have gotten to him quick enough? This line of thought continued and Adamira didn't even notice that Eowyn had come and sat beside her until the younger woman's hands were clasped around her own. She hadn't noticed they were shaking. Adamira felt tears welling up as she lifted her gaze to meet Eowyn's.

"I am sorry for your loss," the young Rohir began, sweeping a strand of hair from Adamira's face. "You knew the Lord Boromir well."

"Like a brother," Adamira croaked in return. "We were very close."

"I lost my cousin to an orc attack a few weeks ago," Eowyn revealed. "He was like a brother as well. Now I watch my own brother ride through the gates every morning and wonder if it is the last time I will see him do so. Eomer is brave and strong, but that doesn't stop the worrying."

"Eomer?" Adamira cried, startled out of her misery for a moment. "He is your brother?"

"Yes," Eowyn replied easily. "Does that surprise you?"

Adamira realized now that she'd heard it she was not surprised. "No, not now," she stuttered. "Now that I think on it, I should have already realized…your names sound alike."

Eowyn laughed. "If only everything could be known by a person, merely by their name, Lady Ranger." Her face grew serious again, making her resemble her brother more, Adamira noticed. "If there is anything you need, you only have to ask."

"A bath would be most welcome," Adamira returned with a small smile. She pushed the grief that hung like a heavy cloud over her head far away. Now was not the time for it. When her mission was completed, when the war was over, when her people were safe, then, and only then, would she grieve for those she'd lost.

Eowyn released Adamira's hands with a small nod. "I thought you might, so one is already being drawn. I'll go check on it if you wish." After Adamira nodded, Eowyn rose from the bed and left the room with a swish of skirts.

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Left to her own devices, Adamira cast her gaze around the room she was in. It was not an extravagant room, she supposed; at least, not compared to the rooms of many of the nobles of Gondor, who prized elegance and beauty even as they kept themselves separated from the beauty of the world by high walls of stone. No tapestries hung on the walls, showing great hunts or battles; no rugs adorned the floor to soften the sound of one's feet as they tread across the stone. The bed Adamira laid in was heavy, and could, by her estimate, hold three others her size, with none being crowded by the others. A single window with no glass was set in the wall near her bed, but she could see nothing through it. The same chair that the Lord Eomer had been reclined in when Adamira had first awaken sat before a small desk that was laden with what Adamira thankfully recognized as her belongings, which seemed, at closer study, to be fully accounted for. A sturdy nightstand held a clay basin and pitcher next to her bed. She decided that she liked this room. It was simple, existing merely to serve its purpose and little else.

Adamira shuddered as a breeze snuck in through the window and nipped at her bare shoulders and arms, causing goose bumps to rise on her skin. She had been stripped of her vest, tunic, and shirt, left only in the thin, sleeveless white undershirt she wore, as well as her pants. With a sigh, she noticed that much of her shirt was tattered and stained the dark, ugly red-brown color she recognized as dried blood, and that her pants had seen much brighter days as well, covered as they were with mud and grime, and torn just above the neatly-bandaged gash on her calf. What would Faramir think when he saw her? She didn't have time to answer herself before the door opened and Eowyn re-entered, followed by a bent, wizened old woman.

"This is Henwyn, one of our best Healers," Eowyn said as the elderly Healer moved to Adamira's bedside. "Your bath is ready, but she has to remove the bandages first."

"Had quite an adventure, did we?" Henwyn stated as Adamira obligingly raised her shirt high enough to reveal the bandages encasing her stomach and side. A sharp hiss escaped through clenched teeth as Henwyn began pulling the cloth away, the bandages pulling at the scabs of a few minor cuts. The healer tittered as she continued. "War is no place for a woman," she said.

"Why not?" Adamira replied. "Has a woman not as much cause to go to war as a man?" She hissed again as Henwyn continued in her duties.

"War is death and blood and destruction. A woman's place in war is at home with her family."

"And if that family is attacked?" Adamira inquired. "Death and destruction don't honor gender when choosing their victims. Is a woman not to defend her family if danger comes their way? Is she not to defend those she loves?"

Henwyn moved from Adamira's stomach to the bandages around her right arm. "There is a difference between defending oneself and riding straight into the fray, Lady Ranger. It—Who sewed this?"

Adamira shifted to see that Henwyn had undone the bandage around her upper arm, finding the almost-healed injury from her scouting mission in Ithilien. "I did," she said proudly.

"So you are skilled in the arts of healing as well as the arts of war," Henwyn mused. "Well, at least you are not a complete waste, Lady Ranger. Your hands are useful, even if I doubt the use of your tongue." Adamira couldn't help but laugh. She decided she liked this Healer. The seasoned woman didn't care whether or not she offended someone, and she worked her craft well, removing the wraps around Adamira's various injuries quickly and skillfully.

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Once Henwyn had finished her task and left to burn the old, blood-stained bandages, Eowyn helped Adamira to her feet. Adamira's injured leg gave out the first time she tried to put weight on it, and she would have collapsed to the floor if Eowyn hadn't caught her. It was slow going, and Adamira was thankful that the bathing room was only steps down the hall, sighing in relief as she entered a large room with a stone tub, sunken into the floor and already full of gently steaming water. Eowyn helped Adamira peel her grimy clothes from her skin before leaving to have her clothes washed and mended.

Adamira sank into the hot water with a sigh as her sore, abused muscled instantly relaxed. She simply lay in the water for several long, blissful minutes, allowing the water to fully saturate every pore of her skin. She then found a small comb on the edge of the tub and used it to untangle her hair, wincing as she had to tug harshly on many of the knots, as the strands of hair were further matted together by the mud and filth accumulated over five days of captivity and violence. When her hair finally lay in a semi-tamed, if grimy, mass down her back, Adamira leaned forward to inspect a line of bottles, choosing several and opening them, sniffing the contents, and then returning them to the line with a wrinkle of her nose. The Rohirrim, she discovered, preferred simple scents, unlike her fellow Gondorians, who seemed bent on carrying an entire garden with them as they walked.

Finally finding an oil that was sweet-smelling but subtle, Adamira poured a liberal amount into her hands before rubbing it into her hair, massaging her scalp and lathering the locks from root to tip, ridding it of the dried grime and muck that had entwined itself in the tresses. She then chose another oil and used it and a cloth, neatly folded and waiting on the side of the tub, to scrub all of the dried blood, mud, and filth crusted on her skin until it shined pink from the rough cleansing. After rinsing off, Adamira climbed from the tub, her skin slightly steaming, and wrapped herself in a soft, woolen robe Eowyn had left for her, squeezing the excess water from her hair. She was slightly ashamed by how dirty the once-clean water was now that she was finished with her much-desired bath. This thought quickly flew from her mind, however, as she caught a glimpse of herself in a long mirror across the room and was unable to resist making her way over to it.

Her normally golden-tinged skin was pale with the energy and exertion required to reach this mirror, making her seem on the verge of death, but that was not what shocked and worried Adamira. Dark bruises marred her face and neck and every other patch of skin visible. But even this wasn't Adamira's prime concern; she could deal with bruises. Bruises were nothing. No, what worried Adamira were the forms these particular bruises took. Faramir would not like this; even Mordor would be unable to stand against Faramir's wrath should he see his sister like this. An angry blue-and-purple mass, further accentuated by a malevolent gash, revealed where the Uruk-hai leader had hit her in the face, cutting her with his steel gauntlet; mottled purple fingers tightened around her throat in memory of the same Uruk-hai trying to squeeze the life out of her.

Adamira couldn't help but remove the robe she was clad in to see more evidence of the orcs' destruction. Numerous hands and fingers viciously gripped her arms from when one Uruk had tried to rape her; a vast sea of bruises swirled across her body from her punishment for killing said Uruk. Then there were the actual wounds: the largest the gash across her stomach and side, none truly worthy of claiming the title of being the smallest. Adamira traced the line of neatly sewn stitches from her navel all the way around to her hip. No, Faramir would not like this idea at all—not that he would ever see the scar from this particular gash or some of the other cuts and scrapes, but he would inevitably see the bruises and notice something off, and then the horrific story would come out. The orcs and Uruks she had run into—and subsequently killed—had marked her, and that wasn't something one could easily hide, especially when around a protective older brother that, many times, knew her better than she knew herself.

With a shudder as she relived every blow her body had borne and absorbed, Adamira again wrapped the robe around her body, nuzzling her face in the warm, soft wool. It smelled faintly of soap and soft bathing oils, and she wondered if it belonged to someone else, with her merely borrowing it for a moment. She turned away from the mirror as the door behind her opened, revealing, once again, the shriveled, yet amazingly sturdy, form of Henwyn. The Healer shuffled forward until she stood before Adamira and brought a hand up to the young Gondorian's chin, turning her face this way and that.

"That is much better," she said with a grin that deepened the wrinkles on her wise face. "I can properly see you now that you are not coated in mud and your own blood." She seemed to study Adamira's features. "You have a brave face, much like my own daughter, though she never returned home in a condition such as yours." A faraway look came over Henwyn's face. "War is no place for a woman, even one with a heart as brave as yours, but you seem to have made it your home."

Adamira had the distinct notion that this was the closest to a compliment that the old Healer would give her, but before she could thank her, Henwyn continued. "You must have a mother and father at home, anxious for your return." Adamira held back the scoff that rose in her throat. She had never known her mother, and her father hadn't so much as looked at her in several months. Thankfully, Henwyn returned briskly to the matter at hand, dropping her hand from Adamira's face and catching her wrist before Adamira's tongue could betray her. "Come, Lady Ranger, we must see to these wounds."

* * *

Adamira followed Henwyn back to her rooms, breathless by the time she fell onto her bed, due to the quick pace the surprisingly agile woman had set down the short hall. She fought to steady her breathing around the pain in her chest and sides as Henwyn went to work mixing a poultice to apply to Adamira's various injuries. As Adamira managed to slow her breath, she found that she recognized the faint, sage-like smell of the leaves Henwyn was grinding into a powder and then mixing with water to create the paste that would be slathered over Adamira's wounds to help them heal.

"Yarrow?" Adamira identified as she watched Henwyn's deft work, her hands skillfully mixing the exact proportions without the aid of a measuring cup or spoon. This Healer knew her art well. "And calendula?" Adamira continued as she caught the faint whiff of something bitter. She sniffed again. "But why kingsfoil? It is only a weed!" Adamira understood the calendula and yarrow: calendula speeded the healing of wounds and sores; yarrow made blood clot faster and also prevented inflammation in wounds, but she had never heard of using kingsfoil in medicine.

"Lord Aragorn is a skilled Healer, and told me that kingsfoil will help your wounds heal faster," Henwyn stated as she added more water to the bowl she was created the poultice in. "I myself have never heard of it, but it will hurt nothing to try." She glances sidelong over to where Adamira waited. "You know your herbs, Lady Ranger."

"I had many fine teachers in the White City's Houses of Healing," Adamira returned, wrinkling her nose at the strong, bitter smell of calendula lingering in the air. She shrugged out of her robe as Henwyn came to sit beside her with the paste and bandages. The concoction of herbs was cool as it was smoothed onto Adamira's skin, creating a dark shield over the stitched gash on Adamira's abdomen. Adamira sat up, her back perfectly straight, as Henwyn began wrapping new bandages tightly around her stomach. As Henwyn pressed down on Adamira's side in order to guide the bandages around, Adamira gasped, almost doubling over at the unexpected explosion of pain in her side.

"You have several cracked ribs, my lady," remarked Henwyn as the pain slowly subsided. "You must not overexert yourself until they heal. Those orcs were not gentle with you." Adamira nodded, still unable to speak. "What made you choose this life?" murmured Henwyn as she finished wrapping Adamira's abdomen. "Why did you choose a life of pain, of death, instead of remaining in the Healing Houses?"

"You are not the first to ask that question, Lady Healer, and I doubt you shall be the last," Adamira began. "My mother died only weeks after I was born and my father grew distant after her death. I was mostly raised by two older brothers and an elderly nurse. Both of my brothers were training to be soldiers, so I wanted to be one as well and convinced the arms master to allow me to train in the arts of war. When I was seventeen, I realized that, as a woman, I would never be allowed near a field of battle, and so I began to study at the Houses of Healing. In the Houses, I saw many of my countrymen die because, by the time they reached the Houses, it was too late for them. So, I joined the Rangers of Ithilien as a Healer so that the men could be treated as soon as they were injured. Most of Gondor doesn't know that I fight as well."

"I see," said Henwyn. It was not stated as a question, but merely a statement of understanding what she was being told, whether or not she agreed with it. The skilled Healer continued working in silence and Adamira allowed that silence to stand. Soon, Henwyn had finished wrapping Adamira's wounds and helped her put the wool robe back on.

"You are brave to choose such a life; I admire you for it. I am glad to have met you, Lady Ranger. I pray that the Valar will keep you safe through this war." Henwyn again cupped Adamira's face in her hand. "I must leave you, now. Lady Eowyn will return soon with some clothes for you. Until then, eat. You need to regain your strength if you wish to return to your people soon."

With that, Henwyn stood and shuffled from the room, and Adamira saw that the food she had been unable to eat before was still sitting on the nightstand. Finding herself suddenly ravenous, Adamira pulled the tray to her and immediately began devouring the stew and bread, now cold, though she was too hungry to care. She had finished eating and was sitting on the edge of her bed, beginning to get impatient, when Eowyn finally came in with a bundle of clothes.

"These are some of my clothes," the young Rohir said as she strode over to Adamira's side. "They won't fit perfectly, of course, but I think they'll do until your clothes are mended."

"Thank you," Adamira returned as she accepted the bundle. "I'm certain they'll be fine."

"You're welcome,-" Eowyn paused, realizing she didn't know the young Gondorian's name.

"My name is Adamira. Forgive me, I did not think to introduce myself earlier," Adamira apologized, realizing Eowyn's plight.

"No, I'm the one who should apologize," Eowyn returned. "It was rude of me not to ask earlier. Please, let me help you." Eowyn took the bundle of clothes from Adamira's hands, setting it on the bed and helping Adamira stand. She pulled the first article of clothing, a soft, white woolen shift, from the bundle as Adamira allowed the robe around her shoulders to fall to the floor, allowing the warm shift to envelope her body as Eowyn helped her, mindful of her pain.

Though her waist was just as slender as the Lady Eowyn's, Adamira's hips were wider, her back broader, her muscles a bit more toned, features of a life spent wielding weapons rather than carrying food. Luckily, a few small adjustments to the side laces on the sleeveless, dark green jumper dress Eowyn had brought set everything right, aside from the fact that the hem of the dress dragged the floor, due to the fact that Eowyn towered over Adamira, who, remembering Eomer's powerful size, silently wondered if all citizens of Rohan were built so hardy and strong, in which case she understood why the bed she slumbered in was so massive. She herself was short even for a woman of Gondor, and hoped she wouldn't find herself in a crowd of Rohirrim if such be the case, for she would surely be lost. Adamira finally had the idea of using a belt Eowyn brought to keep the extra folds of cloth from finding their way under Adamira's already hindered feet.

After the necessary adjustments had been made to the dress, Eowyn set Adamira on a stool, grabbed a comb, and immediately set to untangling Adamira's still-damp hair, not satisfied until Adamira's hair lay in sleek, shining strands to her waist. At Adamira's request, Eowyn then plaited it into a thick braid down the Ranger's back, twisting it up into the requested coronet and securing it with a ribbon.

"Thank you," Adamira said as she stood from the stool.

"Aragorn says you are free to explore as you wish, so long as you do not over exert yourself," Eowyn said in return. "Only you know how much you can handle. But he does wish for you to put your arm in a sling to help it heal faster and keep from getting hurt worse."

Adamira nodded, allowing Eowyn to tie a stretch of fabric around her neck, in which she obligingly rested her left arm. She'd been trained as a Healer; Eowyn did not have to stress to her the importance of giving a wound the chance to heal.

"Lord Aragorn felt that you might wish to see your horse," Eowyn stated.

"I would very much like to go to the stables," Adamira agreed, trying to keep herself from attempting to run down the halls. "I've been worried about Voronwe very much."

Eowyn nodded, and Adamira found her boots next to the desk holding her belongings, the soft, worn leather molding to her feet like a second skin. Adamira then permitted Eowyn to guide her through the foreign halls of Meduseld, studying curiously the sprawling hallways and avoiding the curious gazes of the soldiers and servants they passed. Adamira ducked her head as their curious eyes absorbed the bruises on her face. Much like the young Rohirrim soldier she had been unable to save, Adamira could feel that these people pitied her, and she could feel her temper flaring despite her best efforts to smother it. She didn't want these people's pity! She only wanted Theoden King to agree to aid Gondor so that she could return to her men and help in the inevitable attack on Minas Tirith. She didn't need their compassion; she needed their help.

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**A/N:** I hope you enjoyed it! Also, I've made a trailer for this story that is now posted on YouTube. If you'd like to see it the link is at the bottom of my profile. I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up, as I'm currently simply trying to survive my last semester of my senior year of high school. Hopefully I'll get it up soon, but until then, review and let me know what you're thinking so far! =D

Lauren


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Thanks for all the reviews for the last chapter! I'm sorry it took so long to get this up! I've been running crazy with school and what not, but, on the other hand, I'm finally eighteen! :D Hopefully the next one will be up faster! Enjoy the next chapter! Don't forget to review and let me know what you think!

Lauren

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****Chap. 12**

The glare of the evening sun dimmed considerably as Adamira followed Eowyn through a massive doorway and into Meduseld's stables. The comforting smell of horses, straw, and leather filled Adamira's nose as the pair of women lingered over the threshold, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dim light provided by lamps and openings in the roof. Suddenly, a fierce whinny shattered the evening air as a massive stallion reared only steps away from where Eowyn and Adamira stood. The horse was surrounded by several stable boys who clung to his lead, desperate to calm the furious stallion who was refusing to leave his stall, pulling against the lead and tossing his head as he continued to trumpet his protests. With a sickening jolt, Adamira realized that she knew this disturbed steed, taking in its proud bearing and bandaged flanks with both pride and horror. Without a second thought as to her own condition, she rushed as fast as she could toward the stall, stumbling several times in her haste to reach her stallion's side.

Pushing through the crowd of stablehands, none of whom could have been older than sixteen, Adamira took the lead from the two stableboys clinging to it, the intensity of her motions causing the two hands to step away immediately, shocked. She began speaking softly to her frenzied stallion, attempting to soothe him as he reared once again. Recognizing Adamira's voice and the lyrical language of the Rangers flowing from her tongue, Voronwe came down, his chest heaving and nostrils flaring as his gaze settled on his rider. Adamira continued speaking to the destrier in soothing tones, running a gentle hand over the chestnut's face and down his neck, a sense of relief overwhelming her as he nickered and snuffled her hair.

"Quiet now, my brother," she whispered softly. "Steady. You've done your duty. No one's going to hurt either one of us. We're safe for now. Calm down."

Voronwe nickered softly in response and pressed his nose against Adamira's cheek as she ran her hand over his neck, feeling the strong muscles twitch under her fingers. Her smile turned into a laugh as the nosy, demanding horse began pressing his snout against Adamira's hand and torso, searching for a pocket in her dress that might possibly contain a treat of some sort. Adamira's laugh turned into a hiss as Voronwe nudged her stomach harder than expected, sending a sharp pain shooting across her side and ribs. The horse warily took a step back at his mistress's unexpected reaction. Swallowing the pain, Adamira reached out and scratched Voronwe's ears, reassuring the stallion that he had done nothing wrong. She buried her face in his long mane as she waited for the pain in her ribs to subside, relaxing and breathing in Voronwe's sharp, earthy smell.

"Few men are brave enough to step willingly into the path of an angry warhorse, and even fewer women." Startled, Adamira whipped around to see a man she didn't recognize. He was perhaps her father's age, with a pleasant smile and eyes that looked on her with respect. "I am Elan, master of the King's stables," he said, moving to stand beside Voronwe. Adamira noticed that he held a ceramic jar and roll of cloth bandages. "Forgive me for startling you," he continued, his eyes locked on Adamira's face. "You must be the rider from Gondor."

Adamira nodded, leading Voronwe out of his stall as Elan ran his hands over her horse's back, stopping just short of the bandages wrapped around his hindquarters. "Is this your stallion?" he asked as he began unwrapping the layers of cloth once Adamira had led the charger to the open area in the center of the stable. "Or did you merely borrow him?"

"He was a birthday present," Adamira returned. "He was still only a foal, not even weaned, when I got him."

"You raised him and trained him then?" Elan continued.

"Mostly," Adamira replied, uncertain of this man's questions. "Why—" Adamira froze, her mouth hanging open in horror, as Elan removed the last layer of bandages from her horse's flanks. Neatly-sewn gashes criss-crossed over his hide, remnants of his own battle with the orcs that had overwhelmed him and his rider. "Oh Voronwe!" Adamira moaned, tears carving lines down her face as she ran a careful hand over one gash. "I am so sorry."

As though understanding her grief at his condition, Voronwe began snuffling in Adamira's hair, snorting his hot breath in her ear as he nudged against her uninjured shoulder, trying his best to somehow communicate to his mistress that his pains were not her fault. A smile shined through the tears still falling down her face as Voronwe's whiskers tickled her ear as he continued his snuffling while Elan applied salve from his jar to the charger's wounds. Adamira watched Elan's careful, gentle ministrations until she was certain that her stallion was in good hands with the horsemaster.

Voronwe's snort alerted Adamira's attention to the approach of Eowyn and Aragorn, who had been attending to Brego in a nearby stall, as the stallion tossed his head. Adamira caught Voronwe's halter as the spoiled stallion began sniffling at the newcomers, still searching for a treat. Before Adamira could berate the horse, however, Aragorn had produced half of an apple from his pocket, allowing the greedy chestnut to devour it before he turned his attention to the horse's mistress.

"My lady," he greeted with a tip of his head. "It is welcome to see you awake and about, though I wish you would refrain from scaring us again by attempting to calm every angered horse you see."

"Thank you, Lord Aragorn," Adamira returned. "I am feeling much better now." She decided not to mention that she felt better only as long as she was still and nothing came near her torso or injured right shoulder. She'd only just escaped her room, and did not wish to be sent back so soon. She could handle any pain necessary, with no complaint, as long as it kept her from being shut inside for any form of extended time. "I'm sorry to have worried you. I assure you it shan't happen again. I was only worried—Voronwe! Stop!" Adamira demanded as the stallion, finished with the half of an apple Aragorn had gifted him with, again began snuffling at those gathered, searching for another morsel of food.

"Such a horse I have never seen in my life!" Elan crowed as the horse ceased his searching at the sound of Adamira's voice, turning away from snuffling at Elan's pockets to obediently facing his rider. "A monster that terrifies even my best stablehands, and yet he obeys the slightest command of his mistress. You have trained him well, Lady—"

"Adamira," the lady informed, reaching into a nearby trough to scoop out a handful of hay that her stallion immediately began gobbling up. "I managed to train him in many things, Master Elan, though it seems I failed in training his appetite. Voronwe is always hungry, no matter how much he eats."

"As he should be!" Elan returned as he wrapped Voronwe's flanks in cloth once again." Lord Eomer has told me what he knows of your adventures on your journey here. I was unaware that Gondorian women were instructed in the use of a blade, much less to gain enough skill to battle thirty orcs single-handedly."

"It is not a skill many women take up," Adamira replied. "I may very well be the only one, and I assure you I am not so skilled as to be victorious in battle against thirty orcs alone. I would not be speaking to you now if the Lords Eomer and Aragorn had not arrived when they did." Adamira turned to face Aragorn, bowing her head respectfully. "I owe them my life."

"Ah, but better a life owed than a life lost, eh?" Elan noted, pulling several sugar cubes from his pockets to tempt the stallion.

"As that possible life lost, I must agree," Adamira confirmed, watching as Voronwe greedily consumed the pile of sugar cubes in the stablemaster's hand. "Though I fear I shall have to return Voronwe to Gondor quickly, else he shall become too fat to ride!"

"That would be a small flaw for a stallion such as this," Elan replied. "He is a magnificent brute. What is it you called him? Voronwe?"

"It means—" Adamira began.

"It means 'Steadfast' in Quenya, the language of the High Elves," Aragorn interrupted. "The first ruling Steward of Gondor, Mardil son of Vorondil, was called such by his people. It is a noble name for a noble horse."

"Yes," Adamira agreed with a nod. She patted her charger's neck proudly before continuing. "Voronwe is as swift as the wind in his mane, and as steady as the earth over which he flies. He is the only horse I've ever owned that has never thrown me. He has rightfully earned his name."

"A rider who honors her horse honors herself," Aragorn observed, running a hand over Voronwe's face as he studied Adamira. "Are you certain you are of Gondorian birth?"

Adamira laughed, "I assure you, my lord, that I am truly a daughter of Gondor. Despite rumors, the Rohirrim are not the only people who honor their horses." She glanced over to see Elan continuing to spoil her stallion, this time with carrots, which she knew Voronwe loved almost as much as apples. "Though, I must admit my horse has never been spoiled so!"

"Yes, well, this horse, much like his rider, needs to rest and regain his strength," Elan replied. "He has been through quite an adventure, one I would much like to hear about."

"I would be more than willing to share the tale with you, Master Elan."

"I am afraid it shall have to wait for another day, however, Lady Adamira," Elan returned. "I do believe it is nearing dinnertime, and my wife will be most upset if I am late." The horsemaster gently took Voronwe's halter from Adamira, leading the stallion back to his stall. "and no one would want to be late for dinner in the Golden Hall."

No one disagreed with the aging horsemaster. In Rohan, there were three things a man admired most, aside from bravery in battle: a fine horse, a beautiful woman, and a good meal. As King of Rohan, Theoden had many fine horses in his stables; unfortunately, he had lost the beautiful woman who served as his wife and consort during the birth of his now-deceased only son. However, the Golden Hall still served fine meals, and no one wished to miss one once invited; to merely be late ran the risk of going hungry for the evening. While even the hungriest Rohir did not come close to eating with the same vivacity of an average Hobbit, that did not refute the undeniable fact that there was virtually no such thing as a finicky eater among the Rohirrim.

And so it was that, at Elan's words, those gathered began to make their exit. Adamira started to follow, but then hesitated as her horse nickered from his stall. Rather than follow her companions from the stables, she diverted her path over to the heavy door separating her from her stallion. She reached out her hand, grinning as Voronwe pressed his snout against it, nuzzling her palm.

"Lady Adamira?" It was Eowyn, waiting in the open door of the stables. "Lady Adamira, are you coming?"

"I'll be right there," Adamira assured the younger woman. "I'd just like a few more minutes, if that is alright?"

"Oh, of course!" Eowyn was a woman of Rohan, a daughter of horselords, and so to say that she didn't understand how deep a bond between horse and rider could reach would have been a most grotesque untruth. She could tell that Adamira and her stallion were as great an example of that bond as any man of Rohan, and so perfectly understood Adamira's desire to remain near her stallion. "Of course," she repeated. "I'll wait out here."

"No, please!" Adamira protested, causing Voronwe to snort in surprise at her change in tone. "I would not wish to keep you from your dinner on my account! Go on, I will follow in just a moment."

"But—" Eowyn hesitated.

"I assure you I know the way back," Adamira pressed on, addressing what she could sense was Eowyn's chief concern. "The hall is not hard to miss."

Eowyn finally assented, though not without some misgivings, and Adamira breathed a sigh of relief when she finally was left alone. She immediately buried her face in Voronwe's neck, inhaling the mingled scents of hay, oats, and trees—scents of home.

"Tomorrow, Voronwe," Adamira said quietly into his mane, running her hand through the charger's forelock and over his face, finally settling for scratching a spot just behind his left ear. He whinnied his pleasure as she continued. "Tomorrow, I see Theoden King. And whatever end it brings- for good or ill- we'll return home directly after."

"Are you certain of that course, lady?"

Adamira gasped, certain her heart stopped as she whipped around to find who had startled her so.

"I apologize again, milady," Elan said as he stepped closer. "It wasn't my intention to startle you. It seems you easily forget your surroundings when attending to your stallion."

"That is certainly a true assessment," Adamira agreed with a smile. "It's why I'm glad Voronwe watches out for me." When Elan didn't return her smile with the same warmth, Adamira returned to the matter at hand. "Please don't consider me rude, Master Elan, but may I ask what is keeping you from your dinner?"

"You may, my lady, for it concerns you."

"Oh?" Adamira couldn't keep her curiosity from her tone as she paused in her petting of Voronwe.

"Yes," Elan continued without pause. "I have decided you are either one of two things, and I hope it is one and not the other."

"'One and not the other?' You speak objectively, Master Elan. Could I not be both?"

"Milady, if you are both, then we have a bigger problem than simply which one you are," Elan said bluntly.

"I see," stated Adamira, sobering at Elan's harsh tone. "What two things, then, have you decided I could possibly be?

"I have decided you are either a very clever horsethief or a rather high-born lady."

"You are certainly correct," Adamira began after a moment of tense thought. "Those are indeed two very different things, and I most assuredly cannot be one and the other without a great deal of complication. Might I ask how you came to such a conclusion?" Adamira refused to acknowledge the validity of Elan's words until she knew how he'd reached them.

"Your horse is Rohan-born," Elan replied. "Did you know that?"

"Yes, but I hardly see how—"

"As Master of the King's stables," Elan cut in, pulling a worn, black leather book from behind his back, "I have access to all of the records of every horse ever born in or brought to Rohan, as well as what happens to each. This particular book holds records from Eldburg, a town in the Gap of Rohan." He turned past pages yellow with age to a page near the back of the book. "In the past twenty years, only one horse has been sold to a Gondorian. Ten years ago, a mare gave birth to twin chestnut colts. One was healthy and strong, but the other was sick and weak, and the mother wanted nothing to do with it. The colt was going to be put out of its misery until a Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth came and bought it despite being advised against it. Do you know of Prince Adrahil?"

"Yes," Adamira replied simply. "I did."

"'Did?'"

"Prince Adrahil died nine years ago," Adamira revealed sadly. "His son, Imrahil, is Prince of Dol Amroth in his stead. As to the colt, Prince Adrahil bought it as a present for one of his grandchildren. I was that grandchild, as I'm certain you've already figured out, Master Elan."

"Aye," Elan admitted. "I understand little of Gondorian relations, but I know you carry yourself like no horse thief. I've spent my entire life in service to the royal family: I know someone of noble blood when I see them."

"You are very perceptive, Master Elan," Adamira said. "Might I ask what you plan to do with your knowledge of my birth?"

"You mistake me, Lady Adamira," Elan said. "I know little of your birth or your family, aside from the fact that you are, indeed, a noble lady of Gondor. My concern is not your birth; it is the fact that you have told no one of your identity, aside from your name. Dishonesty does not make for good allies."

"I apologize, Master Elan," Adamira replied, leaning against Voronwe's stall door. "But I assure you it is not dishonesty that drives me, but caution. To not exercise vigilance with those who are unknown to me would be to go back on everything I have ever learned. Rewards and good fortune do not often follow the loose-tongued. Foes can sometimes disguise themselves as friends."

"And friends can sometimes be mistaken for foes when their words and actions are not explained, nor understood," Elan returned.

"I've not been asked to explain anything. If I am asked, I will most certainly share any information I can, but I will not simply volunteer information that could endanger my people. I cannot blindly trust those I have never met."

"And yet you wish them to blindly trust you?"

"What you and your people do with your trust is your own business, just as what I do with mine is my own," Adamira replied, fearing she was being disrespectful and a bit too bold. "The world grows dark, and knowing in whom one can confide is nearly impossible. Nonetheless, when I speak to Theoden King tomorrow, I will answer any questions he may have to the best of my abilities. I am not foolish enough to believe I can make a request of someone, and have it met, if that someone knows nothing of whom to which they are giving their word."

"To assume so would indeed be foolish, milady," Elan agreed. The suspicion in his face and tone had morphed into curiousity, and Adamira supposed she had passed Elan's test as to whether or not she was trustworthy. "The world does, indeed, grow dark, and it is only natural for you to be cautious even among allies, but you do not seem dishonest. Might I ask what request has brought you to Edoras?"

Adamira's face and mood darened as she remembered the poor odds she'd left her brother and the Rangers to face. The fields across the Anduin had been teeming with the filth of Mordor, and she riding the opposite way! "Orcs are leaving Mordor, more and more each day," she began, her voice heavy. "They were preparing to march on Osgiliath when I left, and there were not near enough men to hold it. If Osgiliath falls, Mordor's forces will be able to march on Minas Tirith unchallenged. Our armies are ill-prepared and sorely out-numbered. I've been sent to request reinforcements."

"So it begins," Elan muttered after a long, heavy silence broken only by the stirring of the horses around them. Adamira noticed the horsemaster's face darken, the wrinkles deepening on his brow and making him age considerably. He opened his mouth several times, as though to say more, but then closed it again each time. Adamira thought he resembled the fish she and the other Rangers would sometimes catch in the Anduin, but knew better than to disrespect him by saying so.

"Your stallion's wounds were primarily minor lacerations," Elan finally said, his eyes on the charger nuzzling against Adamira's shoulder. "In three days he should be well enough to make the return journey to Gondor." He paused for a moment, a forlorn expression on his face as his eyes met Adamira's. "Your country needs you, Lady Adamira, and it wouldn't do for you to tarry longer than necessary."

The stablemaster patted Voronwe's neck, seeming as though he wished to say more, but seemed to decide against it, turning and sweeping from the stables. A bit confused by Master Elan's words, Adamira filed them away to puzzle over later, giving Voronwe one last farewell before leaving the stables. Voronwe had been given his meal, and now she wished to find her own.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Don't forget to review! :)

Lauren

P.S. If you have yet to check out the trailer I made for this story, I'd love if you did! The link is in my profile, at the bottom. :D


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** Well, here we go! I have graduated high school and enrolled for college yesterday! I'm planning to major in Creative Writing, and, I'm not going to lie, I'm quite excited! Anyway, it's summer vacation. Therefore, I'm hoping to have tons more time to write. I'm planning on updating weekly at least, but there will be a few times I will probably miss: once for church camp & once because I am going to visit Cardiff, Wales in July! :) I'm also working, as I'm certain many of you know how expensive college textbooks are! (Haha!) Hopefully, I can finish this story by the end of summer, but we'll see, won't we? :) I am very much enjoying all of your lovely reviews & favorites & alerts! You all are giving me quite the big head! :D

Here's the next chapter! It was kind of strange to write...normally, the ideas when I'm writing a chapter constantly flow, and I can write an entire chapter in one go. For some reason, I wrothe the first half of this chapter...then went back & wrote both chapters 14 & 15 before I could come back and finish 13! Don't ask me why! I'm at the mercy of my muse as much as any one else! I hope you enjoy! Don't forget to review! :)

Lauren

* * *

**Chap. 13**

Adamira discovered two things as she stepped into Meduseld's banquet hall: first, she was not yet late. Second, and this was the much more daunting find, her hopes that Lady Eowyn and her brother were tall amongst their kinsmen were in vain.

She had retraced the route she and Lady Eowyn had taken to the stables as quickly as possible—which, to her dismay, was still quite slow—until she'd come to a side door of the large hall. There, she'd found her way blocked by two quite massive men in full armor, conversing loudly and clutching tankards of what Adamira could smell was mead. Neither soldier noticed the Gondorian standing right beside them, for which Adamira could lay no blame, as she barely reached the shoulder of the shorter of the men. She had never been a particularly imposing figure, having inherited her modest, yet sturdy, stature from her mother, but next to these lumbering soldiers of Rohan, Adamira felt positively insignificant.

"Pardon me," she said, raising her voice to a level that—she hoped— could be heard over the warriors' conversation. "Might I pass?"

The younger Rohir failed to notice her, or else simply ignored her, but the taller, more seasoned of the pair looked down on her with curiosity in his pale eyes. Noticing his elder's attention being averted elsewhere, the younger soldier turned from where he'd been leaning against the threshold, tilting his gaze to meet hers.

"Forgive us, milady," the elder said, shuffling several steps over to make way for the Gondorian to pass. His companion followed suit, though not before his gaze had passed over Adamira from head to toe, his suspicious expression dissolving into a cocky grin that wordlessly stated that he was satisfied with what he saw.

Adamira was suddenly grateful that her shoulder had been injured and was now in a sling, as her primarily useless arm would be the most convenient for showing the young Rohir his place with a well-aimed punch; she did not think the best way to get on Theoden King's good side would be by assaulting one of the members of his army on her first day of consciousness. Instead, she stepped through the gap the two men had created for her, turning to smile at the elder once she'd passed through. "Thank you, sir," she quipped, giving the warrior a small, neat curtsey and nod. To the younger, she offered not even a glare, choosing to simply ignore him as she stepped farther into the hall.

Leaning against one of the heavily-carved wooden columns supporting the hall's roof, Adamira searched for a familiar face amongst those gathered. The room's lighting was provided by torches placed in brackets all along the walls and pillars, as well as a large fire crackling merrily in an open pit in the center of the hall, throwing a gentle, golden hue over those congregated. Large, open windows would provide light during the day, Adamira supposed, but, as sunset was fast approaching, little light shone through. Great battles of Rohan's history adorned the walls as well, in the form of massive tapestries that Adamira decided she wished to study much more closely before returning to Gondor. She'd still failed in finding a face she knew among the crowd dispersed throughout the room in small, chattering groups, though more than one of the Rohirrim had cast interested glances her way, causing her to sigh. Her slight stature and dark hair immediately labeled her an outsider, and she did not wish to be barraged with questions.

"Exhausted already, Lady Adamira?"

Adamira jumped at the deep voice sounding near her right ear, whirling around to find Aragorn just behind her, concern and amusement somehow co-existing in the lines of his face, painfully reminding her of her brothers, one of which she'd last seen amongst the ruins of Osgiliath, the other of which she'd never see again, so long as she was living. She couldn't help but wonder how he had managed to sneak up on her as he did, as she prided her hearing above all of her other senses.

"No, my lord," Adamira replied with a warm smile and a small curtsey. "I was simply overwhelmed by the prospect of finding a familiar face amongst so many strangers, but it seems a friendly face has first found me!"

"Indeed. Though, surely you did not think us so cruel as to leave you to fend for yourself in a room full of strangers insatiably curious as to a Gondorian's purpose in Rohan?"

"No, of course I would not think you so!" Adamira returned, "At least not intentionally. But my own experiences have shown me that, many times, a room full of curious people can be even more difficult to maneuver safely through than any field of war."

"And that, milady, is why you will be dining at the King's table this evening," Aragorn said, continuing at Adamira's questioning stare. "No one approaches the King's table unbidden, and you do not seem ready to be attacked with questions. Not even Theoden King himself will require you to answer anything tonight; there will be plenty of time for questions during your audience with him tomorrow."

A great sense of relief flooded Adamira's body at this news, and she had the sudden urge to hug Aragorn with as much force as possible, but suppressed the feeling in favor of a warm smile. "Than you, Lord Aragorn," she began. "The Golden Hall's kindness and hospitality will surely be praised all across Gondor the moment I return home."

Aragorn returned her smile with one of his own before holding out his arm. "Dinner is about to begin, Lady Adamira. Will you allow me to escort you to your seat?"

Adamira cast a quick glance around, realizing that the previously conversing groups were indeed breaking up as their individual members moved toward the long tables laden with food. "I would be honored, Lord Aragorn," she said, threading her free arm through his and allowing him to lead her toward the head table, where several people already sat, awaiting the start of their dinner.

* * *

Eomer watched with interest as Aragorn conversed nearby with the lady of Gondor, the mild concern on the Ranger's face not escaping the young Marshal's observant gaze. Aragorn had relayed the events in the stables to Eomer, revealing his worry that the Gondorian had further injured herself. Eomer was of the opinion that a woman who had only just come back from the brink of death should not be out of her bed anyway, much less calming frustrated warhorses, but the Rohir could find no obvious signs of pain or discomfort in the woman's bearing or expressions. If she was hurting, she hid it well. Her face was composed in a polite smile as she conversed with the Ranger, and she seemed relieved as their conversation continued. It wasn't long before their discussion drew to a close with her allowing Aragorn to escort her toward the table where Eomer already sat.

It hadn't taken much for Eomer and Aragorn to convince the king that the head table would be the best place for the Gondorian to reside for the evening meal. They had both given their accounts of the horrendous attack she'd been attempting to fend off when they'd come across her on the plains, and Aragorn had furthered their case with his explanation of the extent of her injuries, as well as stressing that it would take time for the woman to regain her full strength, exerting his opinion that having her sit amongst the court would only lead to extensive questioning that would quickly exhaust her. Eomer's uncle had seen fit to agree.

During their audience with Theoden King, Aragorn had also revealed that he had learned the Gondorian's name, a name Eomer let roll over his tongue now. _Adamira._ It was an odd, lyrical sound for he who had been raised around the names and languages of Rohan, as foreign to him as its owner's dark hair and slight build, and Eomer found himself curious as to what sort of woman possessed such a name. He supposed he didn't have to wait long to find out, as his uncle had requested that Eomer watch over the Gondorian tonight, ensuring that she retired the moment she felt even slightly weary. As such, she was to sit between Eomer himself and Aragorn's elvish companion, who usually kept quite silent company.

Eomer stood as Aragorn approached, Adamira still on his arm. She offered the young Marshal a thin smile and small curtsey, allowing him to return with a slight bow.

"Lady Adamira, I'm sure you'll remember Lord Eomer, nephew to Theoden King?" Aragorn began, to which she nodded, again giving Eomer that thin, polite smile. "You'll be sharing his company this evening. If you wish to retire, he will ensure you reach your rooms without incident."

Adamira nodded again in understanding, her eyes, which Eomer decided resembled the stormy grey of a spring sky, never leaving the Rohir's face as she allowed him to help her to her seat while Aragorn moved to his place on the other end of the head table, between Lady Eowyn and one of Theoden King's advisors. She seemed to be studying the Marshal, but averted her stare upon sensing motion behind her. Eomer followed the change in her attentions to see Legolas and Gimli approaching the table.

"Lady Adamira," he began as the strange pair approached. "I'd like you to meet Legolas of the woodland Realms and Gimli, son of Gloin. They were part of the party that saved your life."

A renewed look of interest lit up Adamira's features as the pair nodded. "_Suilad, hir nin,"_ she said, causing the Elf to raise a single brow in surprise. "Thank you for saving my life."

"_Mae govannen, hiril nin,"_ Legolas returned fluidly. "_Nad dithen."_

"Aye, lassie!" Gimli exclaimed in his rough drawl. "Yer welcome! 'Twas no trouble! My axe looks fer any excuse to kill an orc! Though, I hope you don' go lookin' fer that kinda trouble everyday!"

"Of course not!" Adamira cried with a laugh. "I normally do my best to avoid trouble!"

The trumpeting of a herald's horn put all conversation in the Golden Hall to an end as everyone moved to stand. Eomer noticed the grim and determined set of Adamira's jaw as she struggled to her feet, but refrained from acknowledging it, aside from placing a steadying hand on her elbow. From his own encounters with the Gondorian, as well as Aragorn's accounts of his meeting with her in the stables, Eomer decided that she seemed to be cut from the same cloth as many of his soldiers: the stubborn, strong-willed men that, if injured, chose to act as though they had not even a scratch, and wanted everyone around them to do the same. This idea further cemented itself in his mind as he noticed that, once fully upright, Adamira subconsciously leaned away from the support offered by his hand on her elbow, the grimness of her expression dissolving into calm passiveness.

* * *

"His majesty," the herald began as all sound in the hall was silenced, "Theoden, son of Thengel, King of Rohan!"

Everyone remained tall and silent as the King of Rohan entered his hall, and Adamira wondered at this great King of Men before her. There was a regality in his bearing that set him apart from lesser men; though his clothes were not truly much more extravagant than anyone else's, it was obvious that this was a man to be respected if one was on his side of the battlefield, and feared if one was unlucky enough to oppose him. Her heart sank slightly as she observed Theoden King's serious expression and stolid stature. This was the man she was to convince to muster an army and aid Gondor. Yet, she could discern this was a man who would not be convinced to go back on a decision once it had been made. Adamira prayed said decision would fall in the favor of her and her people.

The King reached the high-backed, throne-like chair in the exact center of the high table, in between his niece and nephew, and, with little pomp and circumstance, took his seat, everyone else in the room lowering into their own as the meal began. Adamira chanced a glance around Eomer's bulk as the King motioned for his nephew to lean closer, taking another glance at Theoden King's strong features. There was an aura of stubbornness and determination around him, but he also seemed to have a caring sense, a fatherly instinct. Yes, this was a King set in his ways, and the young Gondorian had a gut feeling it would be no easy task for her to convince this leader of the Rohirrim to endanger his people by sending them into battle in a foreign land.

_Still,_ Adamira thought as she turned from the king and his nephew to the Elf at her right, _that is the task I have been given. And I __will__ complete it, even if it kills me. The White City must not fall._

* * *

Eomer leaned toward his uncle as he waved his nephew close with one hand, bringing his tankard of mead to his mouth with the other.

"That is her?" Théoden inquired when he'd returned his drink to the table, nodding toward to conversing woman behind Eomer. "The rider from Gondor?"

"Yes, my lord," Eomer returned, slipping into his native Rohirric as his king had done.

"And you say you discovered her alone, with not a single escort?"

"If she had companions when her journey began, she has not mentioned them to anyone, my lord."

"But she is so small!" Théoden cried, appalled. His eyes had nearly missed the stranger standing beside his nephew when first he'd entered the room. "I've seen_ children_ of greater stature!"

"Indeed," Eomer replied with a shrug. "But she seems to have at least some knowledge of how to defend herself. Half of the orcs that attacked her had already been slain by the time we arrived."

"That may be true," Théoden assented, "but she is still very lucky to be alive. Who would send a woman such as she on such a journey, without even a single guard?" The king didn't seem to expect an answer, and so Eomer remained silent.

After a moment of thought, Théoden spoke again. "I am eager to learn what message made this woman so willing to risk her life for its delivery."

The Marshal was quick with his reply. "As am I."

* * *

Eomer felt slightly put out as he listened to the conversation between Adamira and Legolas. The pair conversed naturally, their tongues manipulating the language of the Elves with ease. Eomer could understand a few words and phrases between the pair, but, as a whole, was quite lost. He knew his uncle spoke Sindarin quite fluidly, having learned it from his mother, who was of Gondorian birth. Eomer even remembered his king attempting to teach the language to his nephew, but Eomer had not accepted the lessons. His tongue and mind had refused to cooperate with the strange sounds so unlike his native Rohirric, a fact Eomer now regretted as he was forced to merely eat and observe.

There came a moment in the flow of sounds when Legolas's Dwarvish companion interrupted to give Legolas his opinion on one thing or another, and Eomer took the opportunity he'd been granted.

"Lady Adamira?" he said, wasting no time in catching the Gondorian's attention as she turned to the plate of food she'd hardly touched during her animated conversation with the Elf beside her. She turned toward the Rohir, her eyebrows lifted in an inquiring expression, and Eomer continued. "How did you learn the language of the Elves?"

Something about Eomer's question seemed to amuse the Gondorian, a small, soft laugh escaping her throat. "The same way you learned Rohirric or the Common Tongue, I suppose," she said with a smile, continuing at Eomer's confused expression. "Everyone in my family speaks it. I grew up listening to it every day. Sindarin is not specifically a language of the Elves, my lord. Though, the Elves were the ones to teach the language to men. Many people of Gondor speak it, particularly among the southern coasts of Gondor, where I spent much of my childhood." The Gondorian gave that small, amused laugh again, and Eomer decided he liked it; it was much more preferable to the high-pitched giggling some women possessed and could not seem to control. "I think I spoke Sindarin even before the Common Speech."

"I see," Eomer said. "And what are you and Legolas discussing? I have never seen him discuss anything so avidly with anyone other than Lord Aragorn or Gimli."

"I was asking Lord Legolas if an Elf's skills at archery are really as amazing as I've heard," Adamira revealed easily. "We were also discussing the finer points of bow making, and he has promised to give me some shooting tips I can take back to the Rangers of Ithilien."

"Who are the Rangers of Ithilien?" Eomer asked, noting the look of pride that crossed Adamira's face at their mention. He'd studied the culture and history of Gondor, but didn't want to miss the chance to hear a native of Gondor's opinion on what he'd been taught. "What is their purpose?"

"We defend Gondor's western borders against Mordor's forces," Adamira said easily. "We are the first line of defense when orcs enter our lands."

"'We?'" Eomer replied, confused.

"Yes," Adamira continued. "I have served my country as part of the Rangers for nearly nine years."

"But surely they do not allow you to fight?" Eomer cried, appalled. A woman being able to handle weapons was one thing in his mind, but to openly use them on a field of battle? He watched the Gondorian's face harden and knew he'd made a grave mistake in speaking out.

"I fulfill whatever role the men and my Captain require," Adamira stated coldly. "Whatever it may be. Healer, scout, soldier, or messenger. I have read Rohan's histories, and would not think a warrior coming from a tradition of women fighting alongside men would find the idea of a woman Ranger so appalling."

"Rohan's tradition of shield maidens is an ancient and respected one," Eomer returned, "but hasn't been practiced in generations. A woman's life is too valuable to risk on a battlefield."

"And why is that?" Adamira snipped back instantly, leaving Eomer's head spinning. Until now, he'd perceived a quiet, respectful woman. She seemed stubborn and determined, yes, but now she was outright defiant, a fire sparking in her eyes at the same time as ice coated her voice. "Why is it worse for a woman to die than a man?"

"A woman bears and cares for her children," Eomer replied uncertainly, still reeling at this angry Gondorian before him.

"Children are not borne without the assistance of a man," came Adamira's quick reply, and Eomer began to realize that the woman had met with these same discussions before, having a reply formulated for any argument one could throw her way. "What makes the tragedy greater when a child grows into adulthood without the guidance of a mother than a father?"

Eomer was silent for a moment, unable to make a comment on Adamira's previous point, as he himself had grown into adulthood with neither mother nor father, and still felt their loss daily. "A woman is a liability," he finally said, aware he was most likely infuriating the woman of Gondor even further. "She cannot hope to possess physical strength equal to that of a man, and, therefore, can be easily overpowered."

Adamira gave her quiet laugh again, though it lacked any of the amusement it had previously possessed. "My lord, you sound like my comrades when I first became a Ranger. They, too, doubted a woman's abilities in battle, but, over time, they came to learn that a woman can be handy. Speaking in general, my lord, you will find that most women are more agile than most men. Quicker, and lighter on our feet. No, we do not possess your physical stature, but that doesn't mean we are weak or useless. On the contrary, it can be to quite your advantage in battle to have someone smaller and faster, one who can duck and dodge in places you can't. Perhaps you will never have the opportunity to fight a woman, my lord, but, if you should, you will quickly discover that a woman relies more on her brain when she fights, rather than brawn. A woman is not so easy to overpower as you might think."

"And what about the distraction a woman brings to a company?" Eomer demanded next. "Any properly raised man is taught to protect women. Do you not further endanger a company with your presence? What keeps the nearest Ranger from diving in front of you when an orc comes your way?"

Something changed in Adamira's face again, but where previously Eomer could obviously tell that she was amused or angry, this change was not to be so easily discerned, especially since all emotion seemed to leave the Gondorian's face as quickly as it had appeared, leaving her as indifferent as a wall of stone as she formulated her response. "My comrades have grown confident in my abilities, Lord Eomer. They trust me to hold my own on a field of battle and not need anyone to rush to my aid. Over the years, the Rangers have ceased to see me merely as a woman to get in the way. They have come to view me as a comrade-in-arms. Perhaps you should do the same, my lord."

With that, the bold Ranger of Gondor turned away from the Marshal of the Mark, furthering her conversation with Legolas and leaving Eomer to ponder their exchange. She did not speak to the Rohir again until she'd eaten her fill and decided to retire as many of the Rohirrim began moving to the open area of the floor as musicians began playing. Even then, Adamira spoke only to protest as Eomer rose to escort her to her room. She proclaimed that she knew the way, and was not so tired, nor had she drank so much, that she could not go by herself. Eomer could agree with both statements, particularly since the Gondorian hadn't emptied even one full trencher of mead, whereas Eomer had already consumed five and was eyeing a refill when he returned.

Still, the Rohir had promised his uncle that he would tend to their guest for the evening, and so he would see that assignment to completion. He'd almost expected Adamira to complain, but she accepted his company with merely a sigh and polite refusal of his offered arm. The Gondorian didn't follow the Rohir, but instead walked alongside him, matching his pace stride-by-stride, save for a slight hesitation in her injured leg. Their trek was a silent one, and Eomer left Adamira at her door after they'd exchanged polite farewells.

Eomer returned to the banquet, still puzzling over his conversation with the female Ranger. The halls to her room had been lined with lit torches, throwing light over her and Eomer as they walked. As a man, Eomer was not blind. In the torchlight, he'd surveyed Meduseld's foreign guest. Even with a face battered and bruised, there was a softness in Adamira's features. He imagined that she could be considered lovely once the bruises on her face faded and her normal coloring returned. He'd also determined that her movements were smooth and lithe, carrying a determined grace. She lacked not only a man's physical bulk, but also his lumbering walk.

In short, Eomer deemed it impossible for anyone to look at Adamira and see anything other than a woman. _Unless they see a wildcat instead_, he thought as he watched his kinsmen twirl across the floor in dances he knew by heart, recalling how the Gondorian had no qualms about rising up and snapping at him in defense of her chosen lifestyle. _That's always a possibility. _

Either way people saw the female Ranger, Eomer had decided two things this night:

First: if Adamira felt that her fellow Rangers didn't see her as a woman, the other Rangers were either blind or gifted in the art of lying.

Second: women of Gondor were strange.

* * *

**Translations: _(Sindarin)_**

I got my translations from the Council of Elrond.

_Suilad, hir nin:_ Greetings, my lord

_Mae govannen, hiril nin:_ Well met, my lady

_Nad dithen:_ Literally, 'Just a small thing,' I used it here to mean 'You're welcome.'

* * *

**A/N:** I hope you enjoyed! Please review & let me know what you think! I'd also love any favorite scenes or lines, or any predictions over what you think will happen next! :)

Lauren


	14. Chapter 14

**Chap. 14**

_Fire rained everywhere, its scorching heat sending sweat coursing down Adamira's face and back. Her clothes sticking to her skin and her armor weighing down on her, Adamira continued her fight against the horde of orcs around her. Fire continued falling around her, joined by great, heavy rocks, and she struggled to dodge the falling debris while simultaneously avoiding being skewered on an orc scimitar. _Where is all of this debris coming from?_ She wondered as another orc died by her blade._

_Sereglîr shone in Adamira's grip, the blade as perfect and clean as it was the day her grandfather gifted her with the sword. _Why is there no blood on the blade?_ Adamira inwardly demanded. She received her answer as there was movement by her feet. The orc she'd only just slain stood slowly, as though never touched, an evil sneer on its gruesome face and hatred in its yellow eyes. Adamira cried out in horror, swinging her blade at the creature's neck as it reached toward her. She felt the sword connect, vibrations pulsing up her arms, but then watched as it passed through the orc's neck, somehow leaving the monster unscathed. The orc continued toward her without a single pause._

"_What sorcery is this?" Adamira cried as she swung again, the sword again passing as though through smoke._

_Suddenly, a great heat pushed against Adamira's back, bathing her and the orcs in flickering orange light. She turned to face the heat and her horror intensified as she beheld the White City, every level ablaze— the source of the debris falling around her. She stood a great distance from the city, and that entire field swarmed with orcs, goblins, and other filth of Mordor. Seeing the great horde, and she alone on the field, Adamira knew she was about to die. She raised her sword, planning to at least send a few orcs to the abyss of death before she herself perished, but faltered when she heard screams begin to issue from the city. The cries of men, women, and children, condemned to burn to death in the doomed city they called home. Tears sprung to her eyes as the anguished cries reached her ears._

_She had to do something! A memory sprang into Adamira's mind of the tunnels she used to explore as a child, which ran all through and underneath the levels: tunnels that people could leave the city through. She had to get the people to the tunnels! She raised her sword, swinging right and left wildly at the orcs blocking her way, remembering that her sword was somehow ineffective against these harbingers of doom._

_With a desperate cry, she flung her sword aside and began trying to push her way through the horde, dodging their scimitars. She crept closer and closer, but it was too late. Adamira looked up at the blazing city, a great thundering reaching her ears. As she watched, the levels began collapsing one by one. Horrified, Adamira watched helplessly as the tip of the Tower of Ecthelion disappeared in a cloud of smoke and flames, crashing to the fields a thousand feet below._

"_NO!" Adamira cried, sinking to her knees. Her home. Her birthplace. Destroyed. All of those lives. Lost. Mothers, fathers, innocent children. Gondor was gone. Adamira wished to die, to join her people, wherever they were. Tears streamed down her face as she mourned, surrounded by orcs, wondering why none of them had killed her yet._

"_Adamira." Adamira felt a hand under her chin, forcing her to look up. Faramir crouched before her, his face grave as he studied her._

"_Faramir!" Adamira cried, breaking into fresh sobs as she fell into her brother's arms._

_He held on for only a moment before pulling back. "Adamira, Minas Tirith is no more. Gondor is destroyed."_

"_I know," Adamira choked through her tears. "I saw it fall. All those people—"_

"_This is your fault."_

_Adamira shuddered as Faramir's words pierced her sorrow. Why did he sound so cold? "Wait, what?"_

_Faramir stood, no kindness in his face. "Gondor is destroyed. Because of you. Because you failed."_

"_Faramir, no!" Adamira cried, horrified at the words issuing from her brother's mouth. "I didn't! It's not—"_

"_Accept it, Adamira," came Faramir's reply as he stepped back from his weeping sister. "If you had gotten here faster, we could have forced Mordor's forces into retreat. Gondor wouldn't be doomed to ruin."_

_The truth of Faramir's words was like a knife to Adamira's gut, and she buried her face in her hands, choking on her own tears. She was responsible for this death and destruction. Oh, how she wanted to die! The desire for her own demise became so great she looked up, searching for some instrument of death with which to end her suffering, to find that Faramir had disappeared. In his place stood a massive Uruk, a battle axe raised high above his head. With a final sob, Adamira lowered her head, prepared to meet her fate. A single thought formed a mantra in her mind as the axe fell through the air toward her neck: this is my fault._

Adamira jerked upright with a cry of anguish, sweat pouring down her face as her heart raced. Panic sent adrenaline coursing through her veins until she realized she was still in her bed in Edoras, the sheets and blankets twisted around her legs, binding her to the bed. Struggling to calm her labored breathing and speeding heart, Adamira slowly untangled herself from the bed. Once free, she stood and went over to the wash basin, splashing water on her face before drying it with a towel.

"It was just a dream," Adamira murmured to herself as she wandered over to her window. From here, she could see the stables; behind them, the town of Edoras. All was dark and quiet, everyone sleeping soundly, full of mead and good food…everyone except for her, at least.

Adamira sighed. The dream had seemed so real! It had terrified her, filling her soul with a deep sense of foreboding, and the Gondorian knew it would be some time before she could attempt to sleep again. She looked out at the stable again, and was met with a solution to her problem. Quickly, she slipped her boots on underneath her woolen nightdress and grabbed her cloak from the desk chair, fastening it around her shoulders before moving to the door. It creaked as she opened it, and she cringed, not wishing to wake anyone. After slipping out and closing the door behind her, she crept swiftly and silently down the halls, hoping to run into no one. Luck was with her, and she made it to the stables without incident.

The smell of straw bombarded Adamira's senses as she crept through the stables to where she knew Voronwe's stall was. She had just reached the stall door when a trumpeting whinny sounded behind her. Spinning around with a jolt, she was met with a dappled-grey horse, one of the most magnificent she'd seen, peering at her from the stall directly across from Voronwe's.

"Hey there," she muttered soothingly, walking over to pet the restless horse. "No one likes a tattle-tale, you know." The charger quieted, snuffling at her face, and Adamira grinned as its whiskers tickled her cheek. "You should be sleeping!" she admonished, to which the horse gave her a look as though saying 'so should you,' before lowering its head to its feed trough, as though dismissing her.

Adamira laughed and moved away from the stall, grabbing an extra horse blanket from a pile nearby before returning to Voronwe. She opened the stall door to find her stallion laying down, lifting his head to peer at her as she stepped in. he gave out a nicker of welcome, pressing his nose against her cheek as she sank to her knees in the straw. Scratching Voronwe's ears and stroking his mane, Adamira immediately felt comforted, the importance of her assignment lessening its weight on her heart in the presence of the unconditional love and trust that bonded horse and rider together.

Wrapping the horse blanket she'd grabbed around her shoulders to protect herself from the early morning chill sweeping easily through the drafty barn, Adamira snuggled up against Voronwe's side, laying her head on his stomach as he curled his head around by her legs. His strong heartbeat and the steady rise and fall of his chest soothed his mistress, and the Gondorian soon found herself drifting into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

Eomer broke through the great doors of Meduseld into the early morning air, breathing a sigh of relief. His sister was causing quite the ruckus in the Golden Hall, and he'd only just escaped with the excuse of needing to tend to Firefoot. Thank Bema for stubborn, demanding horses, Eomer thought as he began his trek to the stables.

It seemed Adamira had vanished into thin air. Eowyn had come to the kitchens this morning while Eomer had been eating breakfast, demanding to know if anyone had seen the Gondorian, to which everyone insisted they hadn't. Eowyn had then revealed that she had gone to Adamira's room to wake her for breakfast, only to find the room empty. The bed had obviously been slept in, but its occupant had already deserted it. This resulted in Eowyn sending every available servant to search the hall from top to bottom, and Eomer had quickly made his escape before he could be recruited to help as well. He found the search ridiculous. If Adamira was truly a warrior of Gondor, as she claimed, then she was, most likely, simply accustomed to waking early. She had probably gone exploring through the halls and gotten turned around. Surely, she would be found with little harm done.

This he thought as he stepped into the stables, met with the familiar hustle and bustle of the stablehands at their morning chores. A few of them stopped and greeted the young Marshal before returning to their jobs as Eomer crossed the stable to Firefoot's stall. The great brute trumpeted a 'good morning' as Eomer approached and patted the grey's neck.

"Good morning, Firefoot," Eomer greeted, pulling an apple from his pocket to offer the stallion. "How was your night?" The charger took the apple and snorted, tossing his head. "That bad, eh?" The horse tossed his head again before pressing against Eomer's shoulder.

"What is it, Firefoot?" Eomer inquired, confused at the stallion's continual tossing of his head. The horse simply snorted and tossed his head again, his forelock falling in his face. Eomer turned and looked down the line of stalls, not seeing anything out of place that might be upsetting his steed. He then noticed a gap in the line of horses where he knew Adamira's Rohirric stallion should be standing.

It was too late in the morning for even an injured horse to still be sleeping, and Eomer knew Elan wouldn't have put the charger out to graze until it had more time to rest and recover. _Surely Adamira hadn't been foolish enough to attempt to take her horse out for a ride? _Eomer wondered as he left Firefoot to approach the birthing stall that had been allotted for the small Gondorian's massive stallion. _No, she didn't_, Eomer discovered as he looked over the stall door to find its fierce occupant still lying down. Upon hearing the Rohir's approach, the stallion looked up and snorted at him, as though warning Eomer to stay out. Eomer then saw the shapeless mass at the stallion's side and understood the mount's wariness, holding back a laugh as he realized that he was helping in Eowyn's search party after all.

"I see you've discovered the stables' extra occupant, my lord," came the voice of Elan from behind the Marshal. "I figured someone would come looking for her before long."

"Oh, I didn't come looking for her," Eomer said quickly. "At least not intentionally. Eowyn, on the other hand, has been searching for her all morning."

"Aye, one of the boys found her in here this morning," Elan revealed. "He wanted to wake her up, but I thought we could leave her be for the moment. She's not hurting anything, and I figure she needs her rest, regardless of where she chooses to get it."

"Indeed," Eomer said, taking in the sight before him. Adamira lay curled up by her horse, using his side as a pillow. He only knew for sure it was her because her hair clashed with the green horse blanket over her stallion's back. Her entire body, save for her hair, was covered by a large blue horse blanket, but she was the only person in Edoras at the moment that possessed that deep red-brown hair nearly the same shade as her stallion's coat. "I would agree with you if not for the fact that she's to speak with my uncle today, and Eowyn has surely turned Meduseld upside down searching for her."

Elan let loose an amused chuckle. "Very well, I will leave you to your business." The horsemaster turned and strode toward the other end of the stable.

Eomer sighed as he was left alone with the sleeping Gondorian and her overly-protective monster of a horse. _This should be fun._ He opened the stall door slowly and stepped in, immediately dodging as the stallion tried to bite his leg as he entered. The Marshal then laughed, marveling at the hold Adamira held over her horse. The charger was in quite a predicament, torn between keeping Eomer from coming any closer and ensuring that his mistress slept comfortably. The horse was eager to get the intruding Rohir out of his stall, but the Marshal could tell that the destrier didn't want to get up or whinny for risk of waking his slumbering rider. And so, the horse merely snorted and showed Eomer his teeth while his mistress slept on, undisturbed.

"Calm down, you great brute!" Eomer demanded as he tried to get closer to the sleeping Gondorian, the horse snorting and snapping his teeth in protest. "I'm not going to hurt her!"

The Rohir crouched down by Adamira, pulling the blanket down away from her face. She slept burrowed into the blanket, one hand resting by her face, but burrowed into Voronwe's side at the intrusion of light caused by Eomer moving the blanket. A wave of anger again burned its way into the Marshal's gut as he was hit with the sight of the blue and purple mottled mess painted over Adamira's face, and he struggled to calm himself down. Composing himself, he reached over and shook the woman's shoulder lightly. "Lady Adamira?" he said quietly. She stirred, but didn't wake, and so he repeated his actions, calling her name a little louder.

Adamira's eyes fluttered open and then closed before she opened them and they stayed open as she awoke. "Hmm?" she murmured sleepily, her eyes unfocused and glossed over.

"Am I to assume you approve of your horse's housings, my lady?"

"Wha-what?" was Adamira's reply to Eomer's query.

"Seeing as how you seem to possess no qualms with sharing your horse's stall, am I correct in assuming you feel he is being properly cared for?" Eomer repeated as Adamira sat up, looking confused in her half-awake state.

"I suppose you can assume that," she finally said as alertness returned to her, and Eomer held back a chuckle at the disheveled state of the woman before him. When she sat up, the horse blanket fell from around her, revealing the cloak and woolen nightdress she was wearing, both of which were rumpled and covered in straw. Her braided hair had a halo of fly-aways sticking up everywhere, as well as straw twisted into the strands, and yet, she didn't seem to care. Instead of trying to brush the straw from her clothes, she began stretching her arms above her head with a yawn, wincing as her cracked ribs protested the movement.

"What time is it?" Adamira asked when she was finished stretching, reminding Eomer of a cat just woken from its nap.

"Around ten in the morning," Eomer replied, standing along with Adamira's horse, who continued to eye the Rohir warily. "Everyone has been looking for you."

Adamira sighed. "I suppose I should apologize. It is sometimes difficult for me to sleep in strange places."

Do not apologize, my lady," Eomer returned. "I doubt anyone cares where you sleep, so long as you get some rest. Though, perhaps next time, you can tell someone so they know where to look for you." He extended his hand to help Adamira to her feet.

"And how did you find me?" Adamira inquired once on her feet.

"By accident, I assure you," Eomer replied. At Adamira's questioning look, he continued. "I came out to see to my own stallion, and noticed that I couldn't see yours. I knew it was too late in the morning for it to still be asleep, but I knew that Elan wouldn't put him out to graze until he'd had more time to heal."

"I see," Adamira said before curiosity graced her features. "Which horse is yours?"

"I'll show you," Eomer returned, more than happy to leave the stall with the horse that still seemed to glare at him. Closing the stall door as he and Adamira exited, he led her over to Firefoot's stall, opening the door and taking hold of Firefoot's halter. The charger obediently followed him out of the stall to stand before Adamira.

"The tattletale!" Adamira cried, taking in the stallion's dappled-grey coat. "He is yours?"

"Indeed," Eomer said. "This is Firefoot. But I've never known him to be a tattletale, as you say."

Adamira chuckled softly, reaching out to stroke the horse's face. "He tried to wake half the city when I came in last night."

"And your horse tried to bite me while I was waking you," Eomer retorted, defending his horse as he led it toward the back entrance to the grazing fields, Adamira following. "They're just protecting what they feel is theirs. You'd do the same, wouldn't you?"

Adamira fell silent for a moment. "Yes," she finally said. "Yes, I would."

As Eomer released Firefoot into the grazing area where several other horses were already milling about, a strange silence fell over the pair until Eomer finally shattered it. "You are to see the King today, as soon as you are ready."

A joyous grin broke across Adamira's face. "Let's go then!" She grabbed Eomer by the arm and immediately dragged him from the stable, allowing him to lead once he mentioned breakfast.

The pair walked into the kitchen to find a very disgruntled Eowyn, whose face broke into relief when she caught sight of the woman on Eomer's arm. "Adamira!" she cried, rushing over to the pair. "We've been looking everywhere for you!" She then paused, taking in Adamira's rumpled and straw-covered form. "Where have you been?"

Adamira opened her mouth to answer, but Eomer's smooth baritone beat her to it. "Lady Adamira felt the need to test the standards of our stables by sharing her stallion's stall last night."

"You what?" Eowyn cried incredulously while Adamira sent a scathing glare in the Marshal's direction. "Oh, never mind," Eowyn proceeded. "We have to hurry and get you cleaned up!" The younger woman proceeded to lead Adamira out of the kitchens, the Gondorian swiping an apple and piece of bread before being pulled from the room, mouthing a final message to Eomer before disappearing.

_Tattletale._

Adamira paced slowly across her bedroom floor, nerves eating away at her insides. She had been bathed, her wounds had been redressed, her hair wrestled into a braid that started at her forehead and traced down her neck and fell to her mid-back, and her body laced into a gown of deep blue velvet that fit snugly against her chest and stomach before flowing to the floor. This, too, had been poked and pinned until Eowyn deemed that it fit correctly, though Adamira doubted the younger woman's judgment. She knew she had several cracked and broken ribs, which made breathing difficult enough, but now she'd been forced into a gown that further compressed her ribcage to the point where even the slightest intake of breath sent pinpricks of pain through her torso.

Forcing herself to breathe slowly and deeply, Adamira continued her pacing. Eowyn had gone to see if Theoden King was ready to see her, and would come and retrieve her once he was, leaving Adamira, for the time being, alone with little else to do aside from run through every possible scenario. Her nightmare had left her with an incredible sense of urgency, and she feared the results of her meeting with the King of Rohan. _What if he refuses to help? What if Gondor is forced to face Mordor alone?_ These and other thoughts raced through Adamira's mind, causing her heart to race. Anxious and distraught, she sunk into the chair beside the desk laden with her belongings, burying her face in her hands with a shuddering sigh. _I don't know if I can do this,_ she thought. _How can I return to Gondor if the answer is no?_ Wrapped in her thoughts, the Gondorian jumped when the heavy door finally opened and Eowyn appeared.

"The King is ready to see you."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** I'm sorry it took so long to get this up! You can blame it on international travel, work, and my own perfectionist tendencies! I got the opportunity to spend a week in the beautiful city of Cardiff, Wales. Luckily for all of you, taking a tour of Caerphilly Castle and getting to see all of the Welsh museums really inspired my muse, even though the Rohirrim culture is more similar to the Anglo-Saxons. Unfortunately for you, for the week, I was without my laptop or my writing binders, so all my overflowing ideas had to wait until I'd both made it home and recovered from jetlag. Of course, then my bosses didn't feel the need to give me any days off, which I could easily spend writing, for the whole next week! Then came the perfectionist side of my muse. This is really a quite important chapter in the development of my plot. Therefore, I wanted it as close to perfect as possible. I think I wrote and re-wrote every line of dialogue in this chapter five times...before I even added any kind of description or emotion! I wanted everything to be as in-character as I could get it, and I wanted everything to flow naturally.

In summary, I'm really sorry this took over a month! Thank you so much for cracking the 100 review mark on this story! :D

I hope you enjoy, and please remember to tell me what you think with a review! :)

Lauren

* * *

**Chap. 15**

Adamira stood out on the great porch before the doors of Meduseld, tempted to lean against the carved archway under which she stood and allow it to support her as she inhaled and exhaled deeply, attempting to calm her frazzled nerves. Her heart hammered in her chest and her palms were sweaty as her mind spun, attempting to process the events that were about to take place.

Eowyn had ushered her out here through several small corridors she had said were mostly for servants or guards. She'd then left the older Gondorian out on the terrace, merely stating that someone would be out to retrieve her in a few moments. The Rohir had then disappeared back inside with a swish of skirts, leaving Adamira with two guards who had looked at her curiously before returning to looking out over the city with a stern gaze.

Adamira knew that, as soon as someone came to retrieve her, she would be ushered before Theoden King to plead her case. She could only hope that the king was not so stubborn as he seemed. Gondor would fall without Rohan's aid, and she was the one who would have to win it. She prayed the king would be understanding and compliant. If he wasn't, she feared her temper would get the best of her, most assuredly losing Gondor's only chance of survival in the coming war. Her thoughts turned to her brother and his calm, assured way of dealing with people, allowing that memory to fill her mind. She hoped that perhaps, if she just thought about it hard enough, maybe she could channel some part of his demeanor.

"Lady Adamira?" She turned slowly at the sound of her name, finding Lord Aragorn standing a few paces behind her. "Theoden King has sent for you."

For a moment, Adamira's lungs refused to work as a paralyzing fear gripped her. She was no speaker! Half the time, her words set people's anger afire. How was she supposed to convince this king known for his obstinacy to raise an army to aid Gondor? Suddenly, her mind cleared as the memory of her brother requesting her journey to Edoras drifted forward from the recesses of her mind. "Adamira, I need you to do this for me," he'd said. A rapid rush of courage overtook the Ranger. Faramir was counting on her. She had faced thirty orcs without fear. Why was she allowing fear to capture her now that she was facing one King of Men? She stepped confidently up to Aragorn, threading her arm through the one he offered.

"I am ready."

* * *

Adamira was surprised by the number of people present in the hall as she entered, a thick cloud of curiosity hanging over the throng. She was much more accustomed to the solemn and empty feeling of the throne room of Minas Tirith. _But,_ she supposed, _it's probably not every day that a messenger of Gondor, a woman at that, shows up to request an audience with their king._ She noticed that most of the crowd consisted of soldiers of Rohan in their armor, including Lord Eomer, who stood strong & steady at his uncle's right hand. Aragorn's Elvish and Dwarvish companions, Legolas and Gimli, were also present, and the spot to the left of the king was filled by Lady Eowyn, beautiful but somber in a gown of deep purple. Adamira didn't recognize any others standing around, aside from the Halfling whose name she'd never learned.

Theoden King sat in his throne on a raised dais at the end of the hall, immediately identified as the only one sitting. Adamira's eyes were drawn immediately to the man she'd momentarily be requesting reinforcements from, encouraged by the fact that his gaze, though stern, was not cold. Rather, his eyes studied her like a father looking over a new friend his child brought home, as though searching for clues as to what kind of influence that friend would be.

Aragorn led Adamira around the open hearth in the middle of the floor, devoid of a fire so long before the evening meal, and toward the throne, stopping several paces before the steps of the dais. "My lord, Theoden," he began, clearing his throat, "I present to you Lady Adamira of Gondor." He gave Adamira's arm a subtle, reassuring squeeze as he unthreaded his arm from hers, moving to stand by his companions.

Adamira's nerves fluttered again as she felt the weight of many inquisitive eyes on her. Buying herself time to rein in her panic, she lowered her head respectfully and sank into a deep, flawless curtsy, her skirts lying out around her like flower petals with her as the center. She held that position for the space of three deep breaths before her nerves had been corralled enough for her to rise, her eyes finding Theoden King's_. I can do this,_ she thought_. I have to._

"Lady Adamira," came Theoden's smooth and powerful voice, pulling Adamira away from her inward battles. "You have been subject to the hospitality of my halls for the past three days, under the premise of having an urgent message for me. I have heard Lord Eomer and Lord Aragorn's accounts of the circumstances they found you in at the end of your journey. Before I hear this 'urgent' message, I should like for you to recount _your_ story of your journey."

As you wish, Lord King," Adamira said, holding back a sigh of relief. This would be simple, giving Adamira a chance to observe the Rohirric king and predict a response to her request. "I have served the Rangers of Ithilien, as a Healer and extra warrior when needed, for the past nine years and some, following the commands of Captain Faramir, son of Denethor II, Steward of Gondor. Our band had just reached Osgiliath when my Captain requested that I ride to Rohan to deliver a message. I did not wish to leave, as my comrades needed me, but I couldn't possibly deny a direct order from my superior. So, I promptly left Osgiliath, riding through—"

"Hold a moment, my lady," Theoden King interrupted. "When you left Osgiliath, were you alone? Or did your Captain supply you an escort?"

"I traveled alone, my lord," Adamira replied. "It has been nearly eleven years since I have required an escort in my travels."

"Might I ask why your Captain did not feel the need to provide you with any kind of protection on a journey across lands teeming with enemies?"

"I am my own protection in most circumstances," Adamira replied simply, the thought entering her mind that, perhaps, this wouldn't be so easy as she'd first thought. "I prefer to ride quickly, and my stallion is as swift as they come, possessing endurance other riders envy. This makes it hard for an escort to keep up, and also makes it nearly impossible for an orc on foot to catch me. I also have an eye and a good hand with a bow, and am more than proficient with a sword. My mission, my lord, required speed and subtlety: an escort would simply impede my progress and weaken the forces left behind."

Theoden nodded his understanding, motioning for the Gondorian to continue with her account.

* * *

"…I was unaware that the village had not yet been abandoned by the uruk-hai who ravaged it, discovering too late that I was not alone. I was taken prisoner and bound, thrown in the corner of the ransacked house they'd adopted as a base, alongside a young soldier of Rohan. He—"

"A soldier of Rohan?" Theoden repeated, interrupting Adamira's tale for a second time. "Was he alone?"

"He had companions when he'd first been captured, my lord." Adamira hung her head sadly. "I regret being the one to inform you that they were already dead by the time I arrived in the village."

"And the soldier you were with?" Theoden pressed.

"He was badly wounded and feverish with infection, my lord," Adamira reported. The last image of the Rohir she'd met, his face twisted in agony as the Uruk scimitar stuck through his chest, burned in her mind, refusing to disappear. "I attempted to escape with him, but our attempt failed and we were recaptured." She paused, struggling to maintain her composure around the guilt clawing through her body at the next sentence her mind formed. "His soul has gone to join his forefathers, my lord." Her voice dropped, hardly louder than a whisper. "I saw him die."

"Do you remember where this village was?" Adamira's head shot up, shocked. It was Eomer who had broken the reverent and mournful silence that had fallen, clean determination all over his face.

The Gondorian paused for a moment, pulling the image of the memorized map of Rohan to the forefront of her mind. "About forty miles northeast of the Mering Stream," she finally said after several moments of thought and mental calculations. "In a small valley between two hills."

Eomer met the gaze of one of the soldiers and gave a curt nod. The older warrior acknowledged the Marshal's signal, leaving quickly down one of the side corridors, several of the soldiers following.

Theoden turned his attention back to the Ranger of Gondor once the last soldier had disappeared. Concern and sadness expertly coexisted in the lines of his face. "Forgive the interruption, Lady Adamira," he said. "Please continue."

* * *

"…I had lost much blood from the wound in my side and fever had set in the gash on my leg. That, combined with nearly being strangled, resulted in my falling unconscious. I remember nothing after that until waking up yesterday," Adamira finished. She was slightly weary from telling the tale, not truly realizing how much she'd been through until she'd laid it all out.

"That is an amazing tale," Theoden King said. "And quite the feat that you've made it here alive." A mixture of shock and pride coated his face. _Shock and pride that it was a woman who made such a journey?_ Adamira wondered. She'd quickly noticed that the Rohirric King had a very expressive face. There was no concealing his emotions, no guesswork as to what he was thinking.

"I am, indeed, extremely fortunate to have made it here, lord king," Adamira agreed. "If Eomer, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had not arrived when they did, I surely would have perished."

"Indeed. And what, may I ask, was so important that you would risk your life to ensure its delivery?"

Adamira's heart jumped in her throat. It was time! "Theoden King," she began, her weariness lifting. "I come before you today bearing a message of great urgency that unforeseen circumstances have delayed for far too long."

"What is this message you have fought and bled for, Lady Adamira?" Theoden inquired.

"Lord King," Adamira began slowly, knowing she must choose her words carefully. She again imagined her elder brother's innate skill of choosing the right words in every situation, praying to the Valar to bless her with that same talent, even if only for a few moments. "Five days past, I left the realm of my birth in a state of great peril. Orcs of Mordor have been moving across our lands more and more openly with each passing day, unafraid of the soldiers waiting for them. They had amassed a great force when I was sent, waiting on the banks of the Great River for the order to attack Osgiliath." Adamira paused, a wave of sorrow washing over her as she imagined what her brother and her comrades could be facing even as she stood facing this King of Rohan. "My people are not prepared to face this threat. When I set off, Osgiliath's only defense was five hundred soldiers and all of the Rangers of Ithilien, a total force measuring no more than five hundred seventy-five strong. My lord, if Osgiliath falls, Mordor's forces will be able to march on Minas Tirith, unchecked and unchallenged. I have been sent to beseech you to help Gondor in its time of need by sending reinforcements to help us challenge the army of Mordor."

The entire room burst into a flurry of whispers as Adamira finished her request, save for the King. Theoden remained stone silent, his eyes never leaving Adamira's face. Adamira raised her chin and set her jaw, trying to exude the graceful confidence allowed by one of her bloodline. After a moment, Theoden leaned forward on his throne, resting one forearm on his thigh while his other had gripped the arm of the elaborately-carved chair. "Tell me, my lady," he began, the whispers cutting off as though Death had descended on everyone gathered, "That I am hearing you correctly. You wish for me to endanger my own people by sending them into battle against a force of Mordor so large that the Captain of Gondor sends for aid before he has faced even a single opponent?"

"Yes, Lord King," Adamira replied, her courage wavering her a bit. Something in Theoden's inquiry didn't strike her right. "That is, indeed, what I ask."

"And who are you to request this of me?" The king leaped from his seat like a predator leaping at his prey. Many of the observers flinched as their king strode to the edge of the dais, directing his anger at the messenger below him. "Under whose authority do you speak, a woman who speaks and carries herself as though a great Lord of Men?"

"Who am I to make this request?" Adamira returned, her own temper flaring at being talked down to as though she were some mindless servant doing the bidding of a greater master. She raised her chin higher as she continued, her fear disappearing as her pride and anger rose. "My lord, I am Adamira of the House of Hurin, youngest child and only daughter of Denethor II, Ruling Steward of Gondor, and his deceased wife, Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth. I speak under the authority of my elder brother Faramir, Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien and the new Captain of the White Tower after the death of my eldest brother, Boromir, at the hands of orcs of Isengard. I speak at his request and under his authority, as well as the authority of my own bloodline and status as a Ranger of Ithilien and Lady of Minas Tirith. I apologize for being unable to speak under the authority of the Steward himself. Gondor's need is dire, and there was no time to consult with my father before I began my journey here."

The whispers broke out again, fiercer than before. These people may not have chosen to involve themselves so deeply in the affairs of their allies to know specific names, but they knew enough to understand the implications of having 'daughter' and 'Steward of Gondor' in the same sentence. They knew enough to know this was no normal messenger standing in their midst. They continued whispering, waiting for the response of their king. Adamira waited with them, knowing that her revelation would either make or break her request.

"And so," Theoden began, his kinsmen falling silent as a calculating expression overtook his anger. "The youngest child of the Steward, his daughter no less, has journeyed across a land foreign to her, braving the elements and surviving captivity by orcs—all without her father's approval— to deliver a request for Rohan's aid against the enemies of Middle-Earth…_that _is a strange tale, Lady Adamira. What proof do I have that you are who you claim to be?"

Adamira floundered a bit, unsure what to do with the king's request. Suddenly, ingenuity struck her, leaving her grateful for her ancestors' pride in their status. "The only proof I can offer to you, lord king," she said, "Is one of the signet rings of my ancestors, passed down to the children of the Steward to ensure their requests meet no opposition." The Gondorian pulled the seldom-used and nearly forgotten ring from the third finger of her right hand, glancing down at the gold band set with a brilliant ruby, the White Tree of Gondor inlaid in its face. Theoden looked to his nephew and nodded.

* * *

Eomer's head spun with the force of Adamira's revelation as he stepped forward at his uncle's silent command, descending the dais. His blood began to boil as he approached the female Gondorian. She stood proudly, drawn to her full height. _Daughter of the Steward!_ He thought angrily. She was considered royalty in her country, and yet had mentioned it to no one. _What is she playing at?_ She held out her hand, palm up, as he approached, the declared ring glittering in the center. Eomer resisted the urge to snatch the ring and call her out on her deception in front of everyone, instead taking the ring and turning away without a sound.

* * *

Confusion drifted through Adamira's mind as Eomer turned away. _Why does he look so furious?_ She wondered as he returned to his uncle, handing over the ring.

"It is as you say, Lady Adamira," Theoden said after a moment of studying her single piece of evidence. "You have thus far proven your story to be true." He seemed thoughtful. "But tell me: why should my men and I ride to your aid? Why should I not leave Gondor to handle its own affairs?"

Fear overtook every fiber of Adamira's being as she processed Theoden's suggestion. "Lord King, your ancestors swore an oath to always aid Gondor in its time of need!" she cried frantically. "You—"

"I know the promises my forefathers have made!" Theoden thundered, his anger returning. Adamira was shocked into silence as the king's booming voice filled the hall. "It seems to be _your _people that have forgotten them!" He began to pace across the dais, his expression stormy. "It was men of Rohan who turned the tide of the Battle of Celebrant when Easterlings wished to take your lands for their own! It was _Rohan_ that sacrificed two of its heirs when Gondor was threatened by the Haradrim." The king stopped, suddenly descending the dais to stand before Adamira, venom in his tone. "But where were the men of Gondor when the Dunlendings raided Rohan's towns and villages? Where was Gondor when Saruman fell under Sauron's control? Where were the armies of Gondor when Rohan's people were besieged at Helm's Deep? I don't recall seeing any men of Gondor cut down before the gates of the Hornburg. Where was Gondor—"

"Gondor was looking to its own borders!" Adamira erupted furiously, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She read the shock on Theoden's face and the faces of those gathered and immediately regretted her outburst. "Please, lord king," she said, bowing her head shamefully, "Forgive my rudeness, but you have to understand! The soldiers of Gondor have been fending off the filth of Mordor for years. The blood of my people has been spilt keeping your lands from being completely overrun! The fall of Saruman was an unforeseeable event, and I deeply regret the losses you have incurred because of it. However, you are not the only one to have lost lives. Your land isn't the only one with widows and children filling the streets, searching for husbands and fathers that are no longer part of this life. Gondor has struggled to defend its own lands. If we had sent men to aid you, I can say assuredly that Gondor would have fallen before any survivors could have returned. When what would Rohan be left to face? The combined forces of Saruman and Sauron, pillaging your lands and destroying all you know."

Adamira took a deep breath, willing to swallow every ounce of her pride to get the aid Gondor needed. "My lord, Gondor is the first line of defense for the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth. I ask"— she sank to her knees before the king. "I beg for your aid in keeping my homeland from falling into ruin. Forgive Gondor's shortcomings and honor the Oath of Eorl one last time." Silence reigned in the Golden Hall for several long moments as Adamira remained kneeling on the stone floor, her head bowed.

The Gondorian looked up as Theoden crouched before her. "Please stand, Lady Adamira," he said, pulling her to her feet. "A woman of your status should not have to humble herself so, though your willingness to do so is honorable." He turned and began striding back to the dais. "You have given me much to consider. I ask that you give me time to decide my response."

"My lord!" Adamira cried as Theoden ascended the steps to his throne. "My message has already been delayed by the orcs I discovered on the Eastfold. I do not feel my people can afford anymore hesitations."

"Lady Adamira, you must be patient," Theoden said, turning to face her as he stood before his throne. "You are asking me to either risk the lives and livelihoods of my people or else leave your people to suffer the wrath of Mordor alone. That is not an easy decision for a King to make; I must have time to consider all possible options." He sank down into his chair. "Besides, you said that your horse was injured during your skirmish with Saruman's uruk-hai, and you yourself are in no condition to make the journey back to Gondor to relay my decision even if I were to make it immediately."

"The master of your stables says my stallion will be well enough to make the journey in two days' time, and I will suffer any discomfort necessary if it means returning to my homeland."

"Then give me these two days," Theoden replied. "Come to me then and receive your answer. After that, I will allow you to return home with an escort of two of my men. Those two days are all I ask, Lady Adamira."

"Then so it shall be, lord king," Adamira replied, swallowing any complaint she might have had. "Thank you for hearing my message."

"Go now, my lady," Theoden said with a wave of dismissal. "Get some rest and prepare yourself for the journey ahead."

Adamira nodded, sweeping into another low curtsy before turning and striding from the hall. She burst through the doors of Meduseld and onto the porch, gulping in the fresh air like a fish gulped water. _That went as well as I could have expected, _she thought. _Now, all there is to do is wait._

She looked out over the city, her attention immediately drawn to the pasture beside the stables where a chestnut with bandaged flanks stood grazing. _Voronwe!_ A smile broke over Adamira's face as she raced down the steps as fast as she could, setting her sights on the stables.

* * *

"Quite the personality, that one," Theoden mused once the doors had closed behind Adamira. He leaned forward in his chair, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger as the room began to empty, the people returning to their duties now that the excitement was over. "Somehow, I don't think she plans to leave with a 'no.'"

"Aye, probably not," Aragorn agreed as he approached.

"Daughter of the Steward," Eomer muttered, turning and catching the strange, slightly guilty look on Aragorn's face. "You knew?" he cried, his voice taking on an accusing tone.

"I suspected," the Ranger admitted. "I served under her grandfather during his Stewardship many years ago, before Adamira was born," he continued in response to Eomer's glare. "Her brothers were only children. But their mother….underneath the bruises, Lady Adamira is the mirror image of Lady Finduilas."

Theoden sighed. "Regardless of her lineage, Lady Adamira has given me much to ponder. The people have yet to be given a chance to recover from Helm's Deep. How can I thrust them into another battle so soon?" Neither Eomer nor Aragorn answered, knowing the King was merely thinking aloud. After a moment, Theoden spoke again. "Eomer?" His nephew came closer to the throne and Theoden held out his hand, palm up. "See to it that this is returned to our guest." Eomer reached out and took Adamira's ring from Theoden's possession. "You are both dismissed. I would like some time alone to think about this predicament."

The pair nodded and bowed before going their separate ways. Eomer followed the same route Adamira had taken through the great doors. He wished to speak with her, and now his uncle had given him an excuse. Luckily for him, he already knew the most likely place for their guest to be.

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Please review! :D

Lauren


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** I apologize for the long length between updates! College and life have been eating my lunch lately! However, I wanted to get this out to you guys before finals week next week. Luckily, I then have nearly a month for Christmas break, in which I hope to get at least one chapter up, hopefully more. :) Thank you all for your amazing support for this story! It has been awesome & wonderful & fantastic! :D

I haven't decided how I feel about this chapter. I feel I may have rushed it a bit. It is also a bit of a filler, but, at the same time, it isn't. I normally try to use fillers to expand on characters' relationships or points of the plot. A chapter, for me, is never truly useless. This chapter, though...I don't know, I guess I'll let you all decide. It is important for certain parts of my plot, but, again, I feel as though I rushed it.

Despite my personal trepidation, I hope you enjoy it! Please review! =D

Lauren

* * *

**Chap. 16**

The moment Adamira reached the fence beside the stables, a shrill whistle left her lips, calling her stallion's attention to her presence. Like a faithful dog, the charger trotted over immediately, snuffing his mistress's cheek and ear.

"What are you doing out here, Voronwe?" she said, knowing she would receive no answer. The horse simply shook his mane in reply.

Looking around, Adamira spotted a stable boy working a lunge line with what looked to be a yearling mare. The Gondorian hollered for him, and the boy looked around for a moment before spotting her. Immediately ordering the horse to halt, the boy removed the lunge line, passing the mare off for another stable hand to take care of before hurrying over. As he approached, he bowed respectfully. "Can I help you, milady?"

"I hope you can," Adamira replied. "What is your name?"

"Wedan, milady," answered the boy, who Adamira would've guessed could be no older than fifteen.

"Well, Wedan," Adamira began, gesturing to Voronwe, "I was under the impression that my horse would not be turned out of the stables today, and yet here he is."

"Yes, milady," the boy answered immediately. "Master Elan ordered him turned out. He was getting restless to the point of trying to kick down the walls of his stall. If I may say so, milady, your horse is not very patient."

Adamira laughed heartily, knowing better than anyone the truth of the boy's words. "Thank you, Wedan," the Gondorian said once she'd quieted. "That is all I wished to know. Please pass my gratitude on to Master Elan for his exquisite care of my horse."

With a nod, the stable hand took his leave to return to his chores, leaving Adamira alone. Quickly and without hesitation, the Ranger slipped between the rows of the fence, finding herself right beside Voronwe. The stallion stayed put for only a moment before turning and trotting away from his mistress, whinnying and tossing his head as though showing off his newfound freedom. With a laugh, Adamira settled herself in the grass a few feet away from the fence once she'd picked up a small plank of wood she wasn't eager to sit on. It felt good to simply be outside in the fresh air. It was a feeling that obviously wasn't restricted to herself, Adamira decided as she watched her charger show off as though he were a two-year-old colt again.

After watching Voronwe's frolicking for a few more minutes, Adamira turned her attention to the wood in her hands, running her hands over the splintered face cautiously. It looked to be a roughly-hewn plank of pine, matching that of the fence behind her, Adamira realized. She also noticed that one end was roughly broken and splintered, which explained why the piece of wood had been laying in the pasture rather than making up part of the fence. As she studied the wood, noting the direction of its grain, a picture materialized in the Ranger's mind. With a grin, she reached beneath the folds of her skirt to find the knife she'd hidden in her boot.

Adamira had felt slightly guilty when she'd concealed the dagger in her boot while Eowyn's attentions were drawn elsewhere, but years of training and skirmishes in the forests of Ithilien had taught her to never go unarmed, even in the halls of an ally. She was grateful for this instinct now, though the use to which she was about to put this dagger was not one it had been designed for. The Gondorian was eager to experience the relaxing sensation that always came over her as she pulled a secret design from the wood, but her carving knives had been another of the miscellaneous things left in Osgiliath when she'd began her journey north. And so, this knife would have to do. Adamira set to driving the dagger into the wood, keen on bringing forth the picture in her head.

* * *

Eomer found his bitter mood ebbing slightly once he was outside and breathing the fresh spring air. Taking in his surroundings, it took little time for him to discern Adamira's stallion out in the pasture. From there, it took but a minimal amount of brain power to decide that the dark form in the grass nearby could only be the Gondorian woman he sought. She seemed completely oblivious to anything around her. Bent over something in her lap, she looked up only every now and then to glance at her horse and smile before returning to whatever had her so occupied.

As Eomer approached, however, something in his movements seemed to alert the Ranger. Her neck swiveled in his direction so quickly the Marshal was almost certain it had been dislocated. _Her senses are sharp_, Eomer noted as she seemed to recognize him, climbing to her feet with minute difficulty before meeting him at the fence.

"Hello again, Lord Eomer," Adamira greeted the Rohir, brushing a few stray hairs from her face. Eomer would have been a fool not to notice the dagger she had to switch to her other hand, and found himself worried for a moment before noticing the block of wood she also carried. He quickly realized that she was simply whittling, a common pastime for many of his men when they made camp while on patrol. "What brings you out here?"

"I simply wished to ask you something, milady," Eomer began, adopting Adamira's conversational tone. "And wished to do so before duty and obligation call me elsewhere. Social graces, however, call me to first inquire after your family's health. But as you reported as much as you were able on your family only a few moments ago, perhaps I should instead ask about the health of your stallion?"

"As you can see, Voronwe is greatly enjoying his new freedom, milord," Adamira replied easily, glancing back over her shoulder to where Voronwe grazed placidly, though Eomer had a feeling the charger was watching their conversation, ready to defend his mistress should the need arise.

"That is good. I am glad he seems to be recovering quickly. Shall we move our discussion to another simple subject, then? The weather, perhaps?"

The edge that had slowly crept into Eomer's voice was not lost on Adamira, and she found herself unwilling to play whatever game he was spinning. "I feel as though you have no desire to debate the weather, Lord Marshal."

"Indeed, I don't," the Rohir replied quickly and tightly.

"Then what do you wish to discuss?" Adamira asked warily.

"I think a good place to start would be an explanation as to why you failed to mention that you are the daughter of the Steward of Gondor."

"Perhaps your mind was otherwise distracted, milord, but I did present myself as such not long ago."

"Do not play games, Lady Adamira. You know of what I speak," Eomer hissed, contempt creeping into his tone. "We Rohirrim do not lie, and so we are not easily deceived. It seems the people of Gondor fail to teach their children the same lessons."

"Excuse me?" Adamira cried, appalled at the horse lord's accusation. "I'm afraid I don't"—

"How little value must your family have if you will lie about them with no remorse at all?" The young Marshal's mood had dissolved quickly into a hateful semblance of scorn and derision.

"My lord, you are mistaken," Adamira said quickly, confused at Eomer's shift in presentation. "I didn't"—

"You didn't deny your bloodline?" Eomer barked, stunning the Ranger to silence. "Giving everyone only a name and nothing else? Not even a title or position?"

"Your uncle has been the first to ask about my bloodline, Lord Eomer," Adamira said lowly, her temper rising. "For everyone else, _including you,_ a name has sufficed. I am not in the habit of supplying information that has not been requested." Adamira began to turn away, fearful of both Eomer's temper and her own were this conversation to continue.

A tight grip and rough yank on the Ranger's uninjured arm spun her back around with a small cry of surprise as she found her face ridiculously close to Eomer's, almost as though the fence between them had ceased to exist, for all that it was currently digging painfully into her stomach. "And what about your brother?" the Rohir growled. At this proximity, Adamira found that she could discern gold and green flecks swirled into the light brown of the Marshal's eyes, an angry flame dancing in the irises as his brow furrowed in frustration. "Aragorn told you of his death and all you said was how Gondor will mourn his passing!"

Gondor _will_ mourn Boromir's passing!" Adamira cried, wrenching her arm from Eomer's grasp and stumbling a few steps back. She knew she couldn't continue breathing the same air with the object of her current fury without doing or saying something she'd most likely later regret. "The Steward's heir? Leader of a large portion of Gondor's forces? His loss is a great blow to Gondor." The Ranger struggled to swallow the lump of sadness growing in her throat and threatening to overtake her. Sorrow was not what she needed right now. Anger. Frustration. Those were emotions she could use as weapons, but not sorrow. "Am I not Gondorian?" she charged forward. "Am I not to be included in that? Perhaps you expect me to burst into a funeral lay lamenting his death?" Adamira suggested with a scornful scoff. "Some of us keep our grieving private, Lord Eomer. Being close-tongued is not the same as being deceptive."

"And neither is it the same as being open and honest, Lady Adamira."

"_Open and honest_? _That_ is what you want?" Adamira cried, flabbergasted. "My people are at _war,_ milord! I've lost my eldest brother, and for all I know the other has already joined him." The Gondorian took a deep, shuddering breath as her fury brought other pent-up emotions to the surface in its wake. "I was forced to watch a boy hardly old enough for the army— one of _your_ men— die while I could do nothing to help. Women and children flood the streets of my city, searching for husbands and fathers they'll never see again. Meanwhile, the 'ladies' you seem to associate with me cower behind their walls of stone, embroidering handkerchiefs and coordinating banquets, doing their best to ignore the suffering of their brethren." Here Adamira paused, her face solemn as she exhaled deeply. "And in all of that, I am stuck here where I can be of no assistance to my people, having a pointless argument while waiting for an answer I can take to my people. Is that 'open and honest' enough for you?"

"I fear you are much too bold, milady," Eomer quipped after a moment of heavy silence.

"And you are intimidating, assumptive, and rude," Adamira shot back rapidly, ice in her tone.

"I've been called worse things by better people."

"You are impertinent!" the Ranger returned indignantly.

"And you aren't?"

"Save your opinions and judgments for someone you know, horse lord," Adamira said with a scoff. "I will not apologize for my words, just as I know you won't seek forgiveness for your accusations."

"Why should I"—

"If I have offended you"— Adamira smoothly cut off the Rohir— "do not fret. With the Valar's blessing, I'll be gone in three days."

"Don't forget this when you go," Eomer returned, tossing something at Adamira which she caught in one fluid motion. "It is a lovely trinket," he continued without waiting for the Gondorian to even look at what he'd tossed her way, "though I wonder if you give it the honor it deserves."

With that, Eomer turned and stalked away, leaving Adamira alone once again. As the Rohir disappeared back into the Golden Hall, the Ranger risked opening her clenched fist, finding her ancestors' signet ring blinking up at her. With a frustrated growl, she dropped her wooden project on the ground and slipped her dagger back in her boot before sliding the ancient ring on the third finger of her right hand. As she did so, the ring that resided on her left hand, the only ornamentation that Adamira kept visible besides the signet ring, caught the sunlight. With a sad sigh, the Gondorian ran a finger over the etchings in the simple band's face before giving the ring a half turn. _By the Valar_, she thought, _why must all men be so complicated?_

* * *

Knowing it would not be wise to force his sour mood on anyone, Eomer retreated to his quarters to cool his temper. Even this proved folly, however, as nothing could hold his attention. Finally, he simply gave in to pacing about the room, every now and then picking something up, only to throw it back down with a resounding thud. It was amid this abuse to his personal belongings that Eomer heard a knock on his door.

"What?" he spat, turning to see who had dared interrupt his fuming. The Marshal was surprised to find his sister Eowyn.

"Is everything alright?" she asked carefully, stepping farther into the room. "It sounded like an angry bull was stuck in your room…though perhaps that is not far from the mark." When her attempt at humor elicited no response, Eowyn stepped closer, her brow furrowed in worry. Is Lady Adamira the cause of this tantrum?"

"_Lady_?" Eomer growled, turning away from his sister before facing her again. "That is no lady. That is a dragon, a fire-drake looming over her identity as a great treasure, attacking any who dare investigate!"

Eowyn chose to take that as a 'yes,' moving to perch herself on the edge of the bed. "Yes, Adamira was muttering similar things about you when she came through the kitchens. I'll spare you the details, as I'm not sure I understood all of it. Some of her speech was quite colorful." The young Rohir fell silent for a moment before choosing to speak again. "Perhaps it is better this way, that you and she don't get along." At this, Eomer gave his sister an odd look, to which she replied, "Don't be silly. You and I both know that you prefer female company at night, and yet you never keep the same women around for long because, as you say, they are always the same. You would have to be deaf and dumb, as well as blind, to not realize how different Adamira is."

"That may be," Eomer said, choosing to ignore the fact that his sister knew so much about his personal life. She always had been too observant for her own good, and it probably wouldn't hurt for him to be a bit more discreet in his liaisons. "But even if I had a spear that reached from here to Minas Tirith I wouldn't touch her with it!"

"You wouldn't now, but what about under different circumstances? Circumstances where you knew exactly who and what she was and neither of you had said whatever it is that has made the both of you so vicious toward the other? Can you say you would not take up the challenge of pursuing her?" Eomer didn't answer. "As I said," Eowyn continued. "perhaps this mutual animosity is a good thing. Adamira is…untouchable."

"Of course she's untouchable!" Eomer boomed. "Any time someone tries to speak to her, her words become like thorns! The only ones who can manage a conversation with her are you, Aragorn, and Legolas. And Elan, though Bema only knows how. It probably has something to do with that demon horse."

"That isn't what I meant, Eomer," Eowyn returned patiently. "I was talking about her ring." At her brother's befuddled expression, she sighed, "Goodness, Eomer! Despite all of your training for battle, you can be so unobservant in day to day details!" Eowyn shook her head before choosing to alleviate her brother's confusion. "Adamira wears a band on the third finger of her left hand. It is simple, with no ornamentation other than a line of etchings I don't understand. It may have passed my attention, if not for the fact that I have been the one helping her with her day to day needs, but I can think of only one reason for a woman of her position to wear such a trinket. Adamira…I believe she is engaged."

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**A/N:** Thanks for reading! Please review! :)

Lauren


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **Urghhhh. This should not have been abandoned for over a year. I am SSOOO sorry. I really can't say anything to make me look better in this light either. Yes, life has been crazy and insane this past year, but not to the point for me to excuse letting this story die. I greatly, immensely, desperately apologize, and hope you all haven't abandoned me! This is a pretty short chapter, but it's better than no chapter, right? I had another section to add to this, but it seemed to interrupt the flow and power of what is addressed in this section. Maybe it'll show up later, maybe it won't. Thank you sooooo very much for all your reviews and support and PMs! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, even if it's short! :)

Thanks,

Lauren :)

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**Chapter 17**

Circle. Circle. Scrub. Circle. Circle. Rinse. Lather. Circle.

Long-fingered, deft hands moved over worn leather, streaking white circles of suds over brown, sun-weathered skins. A small, straight nose inhaled the sharp smell of saddle soap while a bandaged shoulder burned from repeated circular motions. Through all this, Adamira stood beside a saddle stand, dress sleeves rolled up past her elbows, cleansing the tack the stand held as though the fate of all Middle Earth depended on it. She ignored the curious looks thrown her way by stable hands as they passed through whilst completing their daily chores. She filtered out the whinnies of horses, stamping of hooves, and baying of hounds. So when footsteps approached, it was a given that Adamira drowned them out beneath the haze of physical labor and then jumped as though struck by lightening when her name was called and a hand laid on her shoulder.

"My apologies, milady. I did not mean to startle you." A deep breath wooshed from Adamira's lungs as she whipped around, her hands instinctively clenching into fists, to find Aragorn, one hand raised in a placating manner.

"An apology is unnecessary, my lord," the Gondorian said, taking deep breaths in attempt to slow her pounding heart. "I need to stop burying myself so deeply in my work and pay attention to my surroundings."

"Yes, Master Elan said you have been in here for some time, cleaning every piece of tack you can get your hands on," Aragorn revealed, taking a cautious step forward. "Is everything alright, milady?"

"Aye," Adamira said simply, choosing not to explain that she had only returned to the stables after a certain Marshal of the Mark had put her in such a sour mood she could no longer work on her whittling project for fear her anger and frustration would cloud the image in her head and cause her to butcher and ruin the work she'd accomplished thus far. She'd then angrily stomped—at least, as well as one could stomp with a sizable gash in one's thigh causing one's steps to be stilted—through the Golden Hall, past an appalled Eowyn, and back to her rooms, where she'd found that her attempts to abate her bitter mood by busying her mind and body had been thwarted by over-eager servants, who had tidied the room all the way down to organizing her belongings in neat piles on the desk. With a groan of agitation, she'd set to reorganizing her belongings the way she preferred before finding herself flipping through her Healer's journal. The worn leather and heavy paper familiar in her hands, Adamira found herself lost in reminiscing days of training and then applying what she'd learned to save the lives of her fellow Rangers. The memories quickly turned dark, however, as the image of sharp blue eyes, punctuated by whispered promises, invaded her thoughts. She'd quickly slammed the record book shut and put it away before again seeking something to occupy her mind. She'd found her way back to the stables, where something always needed done, and had quickly buried her body and mind in the familiar environment. "I am fine."

"I'm glad," Aragorn replied. "Though I seem to remember Mistress Henwyn and me telling Eowyn that your arm was to stay in a sling." He gestured to the slip of cloth hanging from Adamira's belt that was meant to be hanging around her neck, keeping her injured shoulder still.

"Yes, milord, but my shoulder will never retain its original range of motion and dexterity if I do not exercise it. Scrubbing saddles and polishing stirrups and bits is hardly a strenuous activity." Adamira rolled her shoulder in its socket to reinforce her statement. "My shoulder is a little sore, but all in all it is fine."

"I suppose I shouldn't lecture a Healer of Gondor on how to properly care for her wounds," Aragorn mused with a kind smile. "I'll trust you to know your limits and not push them too far, particularly since the stable boys are probably enjoying having one less chore to do."

"I'm certain they are," Adamira agreed with a chuckle as she returned the lid to the jar of saddle soap she had been using. "But surely you didn't come out here simply to discuss stable chores or whether or not I'm using my shoulder, since you wouldn't have known the status of either until you ventured out here. Is there something else I can help you with?"

"Not exactly, milady," Aragorn returned, causing silent dread to course through the Gondorian's veins. Surely she wasn't about to be accused of deception again? She wasn't sure she had the fortitude the handle two fights, as well as a meeting with a king, in one day. "I simply wished to return this."

A small 'oh' escaped Adamira's throat as she realized what it was Aragorn had removed from his belt and held out to her. She recognized the long case of black leather ornamented by silver that lay across Aragorn's open palms and ended in a silver tip at one end and a fantastically formed hilt at the other. Resolutely ordering her hands not to shake, Adamira reached out to take her sheathed sword, her mind swimming as she struggled to sort her thoughts. Adamira had been nearly certain that her sword had been lost somewhere across Rohan's expansive plains where she'd never recover it. While she'd managed to account for all her belongings, down to the full twenty arrows she'd brought with her, the Gondorian had been unable to find her sword. Unable to remember exactly what had happened to it near the end of her skirmish with the band of orcs that had taken her captive, she had not wanted to ask one of her rescuers and have them think her ungrateful that they'd abandoned her blade in their haste to ensure that she live long enough to deliver the message that had first set her on her journey across the plains.

"I apologize for the delay in returning it to you," Aragorn said as the 'shhkt' of a blade clearing its scabbard sounded as Adamira drew her sword, the familiar weight in her hand causing her heart to swell. Nothing could go wrong so long as her most prized possession was tight in her grip. "I felt such a weapon should be returned to its owner in proper condition. It only just returned from being cleaned and sharpened."

"No apology is necessary, milord," Adamira returned as she surveyed the gleaming silver of her unsheathed blade before running a thumb along an edge to test the sharpness. "You have my utmost gratitude for returning it. I feared Sereglir for certain had been lost."

"Sereglir," Aragorn repeated, the syllables flowing from his tongue beautiful in their accuracy. "I had a feeling a blade as fine as that would have a name to match."

"Aye, 'twas a gift from my grandfather when I reached my twenty-second year. I declared that it would sing with the blood of any who threatened my country or my family, so Bloodsong seemed the most fitting of names." Aragorn watched as the woman before him ran the palm of her hand over the flat of the blade, her expression darkening. "I only fear how much more singing it will have to do before our lands are at peace."

"Theoden King will not abandon your people to fight this war alone," Aragorn assured the warrior before him, addressing what he could feel was her main concern. "He can be gruff, and he worries about whether his people can handle the consequences of the battles to come, but he is not cruel and he is not without honor. He will keep the oaths of his forefathers."

"And what about you?"

"What about me, milady?"

"You are not a subject of the king, anyone can see that. You respect him, but he doesn't have your true and absolute fealty. Will you ride with the king if he decides to go or stay if he decides otherwise? Or will you set out on your own path?" The Gondorian's words, punctuated by the sliding whine of metal on metal as she returned her sword to its sheath, hung heavy between the pair.

"I will not leave Gondor to ruin, nor its people to pain and suffering at the hands of Mordor."

"A fitting answer for a king," Adamira mused, continuing as Aragorn's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I have been called many things throughout my life, milord, but 'simple' has never been one of them. You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, a descendant of the kings of old. You are Isildur's heir, and rightful successor to the throne of Gondor."

"Gondor has survived for centuries without a king on the throne," Aragorn stated, realizing Adamira had baited him and trying to derive even a small piece of the woman's opinions from her composed face that conveyed only thoughtfulness, grey clashing with grey as sharp eyes assessed him just as he was attempting to do the same to her.

"Survived, but not prospered, milord," Adamira began with a raised brow. "The Stewards have kept the country alive and performed their duties valiantly, but Gondor was meant to be ruled by a king. The country is decaying, Aragorn. Slowly, but surely—like a body infected with a slow-acting disease. Towns are falling into disrepair; nobles are growing greedy with no king to keep the balance. The Steward's hand can only reach so far."

"You are not concerned merely with the defense of your country."

"One can hardly be solely concerned with defense when they worry that their home will slowly fizzle out of existence even if they were to survive Mordor's wrath," Adamira confirmed. She averted her gaze to study the ground before her for a moment, huffing loudly before again meeting Aragorn's stare, determination glinting in her stormy grey irises. "You are the heir to the throne. If anyone could keep Gondor from being destroyed, if anyone could return Minas Tirith to its former glory, it would be you."

Aragorn sighed deeply, his face seeming to age significantly as worry lines revealed themselves around his eyes and across his forehead. "I swore an oath to your brother before he died," the Ranger revealed, stepping forward and placing a hand on Adamira's shoulder as her eyes widened. "And I will make that same promise to you now. I do not know what strength, if any, resides in my blood, but so long as I breathe, I will not be the one who lets the White City fall."

"Gondor needs a king," Adamira stated as Aragorn removed his hand from her shoulder. She lurched forward and grabbed his arm, her tight grip pulling him to a stop as he began to turn away. "_You_ are destined to be that king. I can feel it in my soul."

"Even with the darkness of total destruction looming closer each day, you seem so certain in a future, milady."

Though the reply had been worded as a statement, Adamira easily read the question and uncertainty in the face of the man before her. "So long as there are still those brave enough to believe in it, a future is possible," Adamira returned. "I have hope. Hope in my people. Hope in victory. Hope that the king will return to his rightful place."

_You are Estel, the hope for a future for the world of Men._ Aragorn shook the foggy memory of whispered words from his head as he studied the young woman before him. She had shirked her privileges as a woman of high birth and faced the possibility of death for this future she longed for. As he surveyed a face that showed evidence of hardships and sorrows experienced despite the tendrils of youthfulness still clinging to the surface, Aragorn could see resolve burning bright behind irises of grey and came to the distinct realization that this woman would follow him anywhere. While there had not been so many flowery and ceremonious words, the daughter of the current leader of Gondor had recognized him as the true leader of her people, and therefore she herself, essentially giving him her loyalty and fealty, while entrusting to him the duty of providing the future she longed for. Aragorn lifted Adamira's hand from his arm, placing a gentle kiss over her knuckles before clasping her hand in both of his own. "I hope I do not let you down, and prove myself worthy of your loyalty."

"My loyalty is not something freely given," Adamira cautioned the man before her, a subtle mix of venom and passion giving power to her words. "I will be quick to revoke it should you prove unworthy. You have made a promise to both me and my brother, may he rest in peace, and I do not take betrayal lightly." With that warning, Adamira turned and quickly returned her work station to order before sweeping past Aragorn and leaving the stables, abandoning the Ranger of the North with only the sounds of horses stirring in their stalls and her words swimming in his head.

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**A/N: **Thanks for reading! Please review! :)


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: **Jeez. I have been gone for far too long. I'm not even going to begin to explain all the reasons this chapter is so late, except to say I've been experiencing plot bunny overload lately. O.o Now I m simply going to let you read and hope you all don't hate me & come chasing after me with pitchforks.

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**Chapter Eighteen**

Gandalf the White, formerly known as Gandalf the Grey, was not an impatient creature by nature. After all, one did not simply live over thirty-two millennia without learning some measure of imperturbability. On the contrary, he was one most likely capable of sitting for hours, perhaps even days, when mulling over a particularly heavy thought, determined to fully dissect the problem before making any form of decision. Of late, however, the wizard felt as though he barely had a moment to breathe, much less think. In these dark times, the fate of all Middle-Earth balanced precariously on the edge of a knife, and decisions had to be made promptly.

Perhaps this was why the normally enduring and mild wizard was currently worked into a frenzy, pacing anxiously to and fro with his white robes billowing out around him and his staff satisfying in its loud clicking against the marble floor of a small, private office deep in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. The burden of everything that had still to be done weighed heavily on Gandalf, as did the fear of not being certain in the results of his actions. As much as he liked to be able to mull over a problem before reaching a decision, he also liked to be confident of the outcomes of said decisions. The fact that the war had taken both preferences from him, therefore, was not welcome to the White Wizard. After so many millennia, suddenly there was simply no time.

Gandalf swirled quickly round to face the door as it swung open, the frame filled with the tall, well-muscled form of a man clad in full armor, a cloak of deep blue embroidered with a white swan and the silver helm of command tucked under the figure's arm declaring this man as Imrahil, Prince of the coastal principality of Dol Amroth and adviser to Denethor, Steward of Gondor. The dark haired man entered the room with little hesitation, soundlessly shutting the door behind him before turning back to the wizard, relief clear in his grey eyes despite the grim set of his face.

"Mithrandir," the prince greeted, crossing the room quickly to clap the wizard on the shoulder. "It is good to see you, old friend. Though, I wish it had been under better circumstances."

"As do I," Gandalf agreed. "Have you and your forces just arrived? What news from the rest of Gondor's lords?"

"I and my knights arrived this morning. I just finished meeting with Lord Denethor. As for the rest of Gondor's forces, they are to arrive by nightfall. Mithrandir, I fear the outcome of this war. With the news of Boromir's death, Denethor is not thinking clearly; he cannot properly defend the city. He has sent Faramir to recapture Osgiliath with barely a hundred men!"

"I know," the wizard returned gravely, turning away from the prince to look out of their meeting place's small window, seeing only the city's white walls, though he knew Osgiliath laid beyond in the distance, smoke rising from its depths. "Our future grows bleak, Lord Imrahil. Faramir's forces will not be able to hold Osgiliath. The White City does not have enough men to protect it and Lord Denethor is too proud to seek the assistance of his allies. I fear by the time he realizes his errors it will be too late to correct them." With this, he turned back to Prince Imrahil, his grey eyes matching the prince's in a steely gaze. "That is why I have called for you."

"And what do you suggest we do?" The prince exhaled loudly, running his free hand through his shoulder-length dark hair. "Subvert the orders of the Steward and take the city's defenses into our own hands?!"

"That is exactly what I suggest," Gandalf asserted. "The Beacons of Amon Dîn have already been lit"—

"Conveniently the day you arrive," Imrahil cut in with a dry chuckle, raising an eyebrow at the wizard before him.

-"and should be seen in Rohan any time now." The wizard chose to ignore the prince's interruption, refusing to confirm or deny his subtle accusation.

"So what can we do aside from wait and pray the Rohirrim arrive before Mordor's forces crash through the White City's gates and slaughter its citizens in the streets?" Despite the prince's bravery, worry laced his words. As a commander of a significant portion of Gondor's forces, he knew the odds did not fall in the White City's favor, and secretly hoped the wizard before him had some miraculous plan that would save them all from doom.

"We can send out the Red Arrow," Mithrandir said assuredly, continuing to explain his strategy. "When Théoden sees the Beacons, he will assemble his forces at Dunharrow. Once he receives the Red Arrow, his army will come to our aid with all haste."

"But you're talking of sending messengers through the Anorien, where they could easily be waylaid by the enemy before they even realize they're no longer alone!" Imrahil cried, dumbfounded. This was the wizard's brilliant plan? To cut their forces down even further on a mission that all but promised failure?! Imrahil sighed heavily. It seemed the White Wizard had misplaced his sanity in his time away from Minas Tirith. "The last time the Red Arrow was sent to Rohan, five men carried it and only one returned. No one"—

"It is what we must do," Mithrandir's voice turned to stone. "These are dark times and difficult decisions must be made. The riders must be the fastest we have. Quiet, level-headed, and clever."

"The most qualified rider I can think of has already disappeared attempting much the same mission on her own," Imrahil returned, refusing to go along with this foolhardy plan. The fresh news of the loss of two of his sister's children weighed heavily on the prince, especially considering he was likely to lose the third on another suicide mission. As such, he was reluctant to send anyone to the same fate. Enough widows and orphans would be created in the next few days without senselessly adding more to the list.

"Adamira knew what she was undertaking and found the end result worth the risk involved," Gandalf stressed soundly but gently after a long moment of silence. "I'm sorry for your loss, Lord Imrahil, but we cannot dwell upon that now. We must focus on keeping this city standing until reinforcements can arrive. It is what both Adamira and Boromir would want."

"There is one man I know," Imrahil finally conceded, silently agreeing with the wizard's last statement. His niece and nephew would, indeed, want everything possible done to ensure their city's protection, however reckless and impulsive it may be. "He is fast, quiet, everything we want. He's never failed a mission."

"Send for him," Gandalf stressed immediately. "We have no time to waste. And Imrahil?"

At the sound of his name, the Prince of Dol Amroth paused in the journey to the door he'd begun, turning back to the ancient wizard in white. "Do not forget discretion is of the utmost importance."

* * *

_I have hope. Hope in my people. Hope in victory. Hope that the king will return to his rightful place._

_You are Estel, the hope for a future for the world of Men._

These words seemed to circle round and round the head of a certain dark-haired man resting on the porch of the guardhouse erected just inside the gates of the Rohirric capital of Edoras. As the man spooned his breakfast of steadily-chilling gruel from a roughly-hewn wooden bowl, the words mingled with the clucking hens and quiet conversations as the city's citizens went about their day. This man, however, merely sat, puzzling over the words and their meaning. So many were placing their faith and trust in him, and he didn't want it. His ancestors had made so many mistakes…allowed themselves to think themselves invincible, which had nearly led to the destruction of an entire people, not just a bloodline. Who was to say he wouldn't make the same errors?

The man tossed his head back, growling to himself in frustration. What did one do when they disliked the path destiny had set before their feet? Old stories were full of people who had gone against fate, and very few of them had ended happily, but who was to say he wouldn't be doing fate a favor by going against his destiny? He couldn't be responsible for an entire nation…couldn't live with the consequences of leading an entire people to ruin. He simply couldn't.

As Aragorn hung his head in defeat, his heavy thoughts overwhelming so early in the day, his eyes caught a glimmer of light in the distance. Looking up once again, he narrowed his eyes, finally standing and stepping away from the shadows of the porch in attempt to be sure of what he thought he saw. His heart threatened to leap up his throat as he could find no other conclusion for what he was seeing. Letting his bowl clatter to the ground, spilling the remainder of his breakfast over the grass, Aragorn turned and raced away from the guardhouse toward the Golden Hall rising above the city. Taking Meduseld's steps two and three at a time, he continued his rush into Théoden's hall, desperation clutching at his veins as he bypassed the guards to barrel through the double doors.

* * *

"You called for me, milords?"

The imposing figures of Gandalf in his robes of white and Prince Imrahil in his sparkling armor turned simultaneously away from the desk they both leaned over at the sound of a brassy voice behind them, discovering a dark-haired man clad in fine chain mail and a dark rider's cloak, a silver helm tucked under one arm. The man remained bent at the waist in a stance of submission before the prince and wizard as both seemed to study the man who had managed to enter their sequestered office without alerting them.

"He is, indeed, like a shadow," Mithrandir speculated as he surveyed the errand-rider Imrahil had sent for. Though the wizard estimated the man to be tall, he possessed a thin, lithe frame, obviously enabling him to creep silently. As the man stood from his bow, Gandalf found himself faced with a grey-eyed Gondorian with no true features to distinguish him from any other armored citizen currently filling the White City's streets. Yes, this rider would suit their purposes well.

"He is precisely what you asked for," Dol Amroth's sovereign confirmed with a small, serious smile. He was still uncertain that this course Mithrandir was setting them on was the correct path to take, and disliked the idea of sending this man, regardless of his highly-desirable skill set, through orc-infested lands with the small hope that he would succeed in delivering a message of great importance to Rohan's king before Minas Tirith fell to the forces of Mordor.

"Yes." The White Wizard nodded slowly, keeping his attention fixed on the rider before him. "What is your name, rider?"

"Hirgon, my lord," the rider answered with a bow of his head. "Son of Dagon. I understand you have a mission for me?"

"Indeed," confirmed Gandalf, gesturing to Imrahil, who turned from the conversation to the desk dominating the back of the room. "You'll understand, of course, that this mission requires the highest level of discretion. Nothing discussed here can be carried past that door."

"Of course, my lord," Hirgon returned obediently with a bow of his head. "What is required of me?"

"You must choose a companion and ride with all haste to Rohan," A wrinkle appeared in the summoned rider's forehead. "As you have seen, the beacons of Amon Din have been lit, and Rohan will be gathering their forces at Dunharrow. We need to ensure the Rohirrim reach Gondor with all haste."

Gandalf signaled Prince Imrahil, who stepped forward, a worn, carved box tight in his grasp. "Take this to Théoden King," the prince instructed, handing the box to the rider with careful hands. "Tell him of the peril our lands will face without the fastest assistance."

Hirgon took the box, removing the lid with a deep inhalation of breath as he viewed the arrow lying on a bed of velvet, barbs of black steel glinting behind a tip dulled with the crimson of blood. "The Red Arrow," the rider breathed, looking up at the leaders before him with trepidation. "Are the rumors accurate, then? Is our need truly so great?"

"We fear it soon will be," Imrahil replied honestly. "And we wish to be as prepared as possible."

"You must go as swiftly as you can, son of Dagon," the wizard insisted. "Stop only to change horses. Speak to those you pass only if you must. There is no time to waste in this journey."

"Yes, milord," the rider returned, placing his fist over his heart. "I shall find a suitable companion and leave at once."

"May the Valar be with him," Imrahil murmured as Hirgon turned and swept from the office, the Red Arrow tucked under his arm.

"Yes, and with us," Gandalf agreed, his eyes on the retreating Gondorian rider's form. "For we shall not survive this doom should they forsake us."

* * *

"This depicts Eorl, first King of Rohan, accepting the submission of Fearlof."

Adamira turned at the voice behind her, first alerted by the whisper of swishing skirts and soft feet treading on stone, to find Eowyn and her gentle smile, golden hair falling loose all around her to contrast with Adamira's tight braids and intense concentration. "Aye," the Gondorian agreed, returning her gaze to the tapestry before her, in which bright threads wove together to depict a white horse kneeling before a man in full armor, a crown of sovereignty on his brow. "I am familiar with Rohan's histories. The mearas still run wild in Rohan, yes?"

"Yes," Eowyn confirmed. "They run wild through the lands of the north, capable of being tamed only by the Kings and Princes of Rohan. They are matchless in their beauty and intelligence."

"I should like to see them, one day," A breathy voice complemented the poorly-concealed desire in the ranger's voice as she gazed up at the tapestry before her, one free hand reaching out to brush against the threads worn smooth over the generations. "If only for a moment. Just to see the way they move."

"Perhaps one day you will," Eowyn returned with a smile as her charge dropped her outstretched limb back to her side. "How are you feeling today?"

"Better and better each day," Adamira reported easily, rotating her left shoulder in a showcase of the injury left most visible by the sling keeping her arm immobile and tucked against her stomach. "I am healing well. My muscles remain stiff and sore, but that is to be expected. Voronwe is improving at an even greater pace."

Eowyn smiled at the pride evident in the Gondorian's voice at her final statement. "You have already been out to check on him this morning."

"Élan says the rogue is struggling with the idea that he isn't king of the stables and causing quite a ruckus." Adamira confirmed with the shadow of a grin and a firm nod. "Luckily, we should be able to return to Gondor in the next few days, and your stables will be settled once more. Élan has already turned Voronwe out without his bandages, and says he is well enough to travel as soon as Théoden King gives me his answer."

"You will leave soon then?" Eowyn struggled to keep her voice neutral, but it seemed she didn't quite succeed as the elder woman beside her turned fully to face her.

"Aye," Adamira affirmed, her grey eyes rising to meet Eowyn's blue. "My people need me, and so I must return as quickly as possible." Reading the unspoken sadness in the young Rohiril's face, Adamira pulled her into a one-armed hug. Such an act wasn't something Adamira performed often, aside from her closest family, but she felt it necessary considering the great help Eowyn had been over the past several days. "Thank you, Eowyn. Your kindness has meant so much to me over the past week. I most certainly shall not forget it." The women broke their embrace, but Adamira kept the young woman of Rohan close, resting her free hand on Eowyn's shoulder and squeezing lightly. "When this is all over, and we've defeated Mordor, and the lands of Men are free from darkness once more, you shall come to Gondor. And I will show you all the beauty and goodness the land has to offer."

Eowyn offered the ranger a true smile then, full of warmth and hope, but the smile faded as the doors to the Golden Hall suddenly burst open with a loud cry. Adamira's hand instinctively moved from her companion's shoulder to her own waist, grasping for a sword that wasn't there, but her primeval alarm eased as she recognized the voice echoing through the halls.

"The Beacons of Minas Tirith!" Aragorn cried, his voice reverberating through every nook and cranny of the great hall as he sped toward the table where Theoden King stood consulting his advisers. "The Beacons are lit!"

Adamira froze as the words reached her ears, her brain struggling to process their meaning as her feet rooted themselves to the floor. She may have remained there all day, confused for a statue decorating the space, if not for Eowyn, who grabbed a tight hold on the Gondorian's dress sleeve, dragging her to the front of the hall as the crowd made way for the king's niece. She finally came to a stop standing beside her brother, who cast a glance at the two women suddenly in his shadow before returning his attention to Aragorn.

"Gondor calls for aid!" Aragorn reported, desperation in his tone matching the anxiety Adamira felt coursing through her veins as her eyes, as well as the eyes of the Rohirrim in the room, fell on the king.

If the Beacons were being lit, was she too late? Did her people suffer, with her out of range to help? Panic formed a knot in Adamira's throat that made it difficult to breathe, even with Eowyn's reassuring grip on her wrist, as the king remained silent, the only sign he'd heard being his eyes darting between Aragorn and the audience of the Hall. Adamira felt as though she might faint as she waited for what seemed like an entire age for the king to speak.

"And Rohan will answer!" A sudden weight was hefted from Adamira's shoulders as the king's voice finally broke through the silence that made the large room as stifling as the storage cupboards in the Healing Houses Adamira had enjoyed hiding in as a child. "Muster the Rohirrim!"

Adamira didn't even notice the sudden flurry of movement around her as the Rohirrim in the hall set to following their king's order, nor did she notice the glance Eomer sent her way before nodding to his sister and setting out on the duties of his station. Adamira's mind and body could only feel euphoria as a single thought swept over her: Gondor was saved.

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**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! Again, sorry it took so long to post this! Please drop a review if you feel so inclined! :)

Lauren


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